Payback

by Charlotte Mills

  “Hello, Arthur. How are you doing?” Helen kept her tone light, in contrast to Arthur’s gruff manner.

  Arthur struggled to move across the room with his walking stick. She hadn’t realised how immobile he’d become compared to his wife. The small armchair squealed under the strain as he slumped his full weight down into it. She looked up to see Gloria’s eyes watching her.

  “He’s got problems with his legs, like Buddy,” Gloria offered by way of explanation.

  The high-pitched squeaking of a rusty wheel broke the silence that followed as Buddy made his way across the room towards Arthur’s chair, at a snail’s pace. A pang of guilt immediately hit Helen as Buddy’s back legs tried a walk and the wheels turned.

  “Hey, Buddy.” Helen crouched to rub the dog’s ears, and his tail made a feeble attempt at a wag.

  “Heard kids round there over the last few months, when I’ve been out for a fag. She won’t let me smoke in the house.” Arthur gave his wife the eye over the top of his glasses.

  Gloria let out a snort before ducking into the kitchen.

  “Over the last few months?”

  His reply was more of a grunt.

  “Anything over the last few days?” She nodded at Kate to take notes. “Anything yesterday or last night?” Gloria was coming back with a tray of tea-filled mugs.

  “Someone shouting in the afternoon,” Gloria said immediately after putting the tray down on a rickety coffee table near the window.

  “Man or woman?” Kate asked, frustration evident in her timbre.

  “Man. Young, I think, by his voice,” Gloria shuffled the mugs on the tray.

  Helen shot Kate a warning look for her tone. “What time was this?” she asked, taking over the questioning with a little more tact.

  Gloria pulled at her bottom lip as she thought. “Mid-afternoon, around three, maybe later.”

  Focusing her attention on the seated figure of Arthur, Helen addressed her next question to him. “Recognise any of the kids you’ve seen going in or out, lately?”

  “Some from the estate down the road. Don’t know the others.”

  Helen continued her focus on Arthur. “You called in the fire at 2:12. What alerted you to it?”

  “Had to get up for a piss. Saw it through the bathroom window,” Arthur grumbled his reply.

  “Seen your neighbours recently?” Helen asked, pointing to the occupied house next door.

  “Doreen? Not seen her all week. Away at her daughter’s, I think,” Gloria said from across the room.

  “What’s her full name?” Kate asked, her tone a little more relaxed.

  “Doreen Platt.” Gloria covered her mouth. “It’s not her, is it?” she blurted out between her fingers.

  “He said it was a man, you silly cow!” Arthur grunted from his armchair.

  He being a fireman, no doubt. Standing, Helen pulled a card from her pocket.

  “Okay. Thank you both for your time, and if you think of anything else, give me a call.” She slipped her card between the still full mugs on the tray.

  Helen blew out a long breath when they pulled into an empty space in the station car park.

  “What’s next?” Kate asked.

  Helen looked across at Kate’s profile in the dim light. It gave her an orange glow. They’d been scanning the streets for Sandy’s friends most of the afternoon with no luck so far.

  “You go home. You were called out at silly o’clock. I’ll see you tomorrow bright and early. In the morning, get Uniform to check along Morley Road. See if anyone has security cameras that pick up passing pedestrians or traffic. I know it’s a long shot, but we don’t have anything else.”

  Helen thought she’d spotted at least one house where the owners were security savvy.

  “Okay, I’ll follow up with Mrs Platt, find out when she’s back too,” Kate offered.

  Helen checked her phone before meeting Kate’s eyes in the darkness. “Okay, good.” She reached for the door release. Despite her obvious tiredness, Kate was far more pleasing to look at than Mike. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Kate let out a long breath. “Night, Guv.”

  Helen made her way through the station car park, clicking her key fob to unlock her car. She’d promised to visit Julia this evening. The twenty-minute drive passed quickly as she thought about the events of her day, and the death of Sandy. She wondered how many people in town would actually mourn or even notice his loss. It was going to be a difficult case—she could feel it—not to mention a new colleague to break in. That looked a challenge in itself, if her first day was anything to go by.

  The car park at The Oaks was quiet. From the glovebox, she grabbed the book Julia had requested and then headed inside. The nurse dutifully informed her that Julia had had a difficult day.

  Undeterred, she persisted, informing her she would only stay a short time.

  She followed the nurse down the corridor, the sound of a starched A-line uniform thwacking against her knees as the woman walked ahead of her.

  Since when do they need a third party to smooth out my arrival? Is this what I have to look forward to?

  Helen desperately wanted to keep the connection alive with Julia. Holding her fear in check each time she walked into her room was a big part of that.

  The nurse tentatively knocked on Julia’s door before entering. “Julia, you have a visitor.”

  There was a mumble from inside the room before the nurse returned.

  “She’s just waking up from a nap,” the nurse announced before disappearing back along the hallway.

  With a breath, Helen edged into the room, finding a sleeping figure sitting in an armchair. The relaxed face looked only vaguely familiar. Sharp eyes were hidden behind heavy lids. Her chest rose and fell with long, deep breaths. The spark of life was missing from the rumpled face.

  Helen took a seat in the neighbouring armchair, placing the book on her knees. Her head rested back against the chair; the rigidity of the design made it hard for her to get comfortable. How Julia had managed to fall asleep she would never understand.

  “Helen! How are you, my dear? Would you like some tea?”

  She looked up, confused for a moment. “No. Thank you.” Blinking, she realised she had no idea how much time had passed since her arrival.

  Julia adjusted her position in the chair, grabbing her glasses off the small side table next to her.

  “What’s been happening today? The nurse said you’d had a bad day.”

  That seemed to have made Julia look away. Her gaze was now fixed on the view from her window. “They keep moving my things, giving me pills; it’s not right, Helen.”

  Helen leant forward in her chair, taking the book in her hands. “They’re just trying to help you, and keep you well. I’ll talk to them about moving your things, though. That we can sort out.” She knew from experience that Julia’s grumbled reply meant that this particular topic of conversation was over. “I brought you that book you asked for.” She held out her offering.

  “What’s that, dear? Oh, thank you.” Julia turned the book over in her hands, her eyes scanning the back blurb. She placed it on the side table, then turned to give Helen her full attention.

  Helen smiled. There was something different in the shape of her face, or perhaps it was the way she held it. Familiar intense eyes gazed at her through metal-rimmed glasses; this was the Julia she knew. Spotting the photographs on the wall behind Julia, she got up to take a closer look. “New photos.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  Scanning the framed images, her eyes landed on a young Julia with another woman, standing next to an old black Mini. “Is this you? Who’s that with you?” She turned to see Julia watching her.

  “My sister Ellen with her pride and joy. She loved that car.”

  The next one was a little more recognis
able. “Is that me?”

  “Don’t you remember? The birthday party we had for you, when we dressed you up as a pirate. You spent more time with me than the other kids. Every time they asked you to play with them, you said ‘No, thank you’ in that sing-song tone you had.”

  Helen grinned as she thought of her eighth birthday. She had been so pleased with her handmade outfit, eyepatch and all. “You were always doing something more interesting.”

  Julia chuckled to herself. “Wanted to be closer to the cake, more like.”

  “That too.”

  “And that curly moustache you wanted me to paint on your face.”

  “I wanted to look like a mean pirate.”

  “You looked so sweet with that plastic sword, even tried cutting the cake with it.”

  Julia’s smile was wide, and the years fell away from her face. At times like this, she wondered what Julia was doing in this place. Then she recalled the angry confusion that took over her mind; she’d seen it with her own eyes.

  “You look tired,” Julia offered clasping her hand in her lap.

  Helen turned back to the photographs. She didn’t want to have that conversation. “I should go, let you get some rest. I’ll come back in a couple of days.” Turning, she bent to place a kiss on Julia’s head before leaving.

  Outside her house a little later, she slipped the keys from the ignition, resting her head back against the seat. Julia was right. She was tired. Glancing out the side window, the dark windows of her home held no comfort for her. She yearned for the days when Julia had lived with her, evenings spent cooking and chatting, days off spent setting up the garden just how Julia wanted it. Helen hadn’t had the heart to set foot out there since Julia had moved to The Oaks. She’d be furious if she saw how untidy it had become. By then, the slippage had set in.

  At first she wasn’t sure if it was Julia’s illness or her fierce independence—a trait Helen had acquired along the way—that had been the bigger issue. The days soon became filled with chaos, but, still, something was better than nothing.

  Helen swiped at tears as she looked back at the dark, empty house. This was not what she wanted out of life. She didn’t want to be one of those single, lonely coppers that fought retirement because their lives were barren away from the job. There had to be more for her than that.

  Chapter 4

  Looking through the blinds in her office, Helen watched her new detective as she moved around, making a cup of tea. She wore dark-grey trousers with a navy-blue shirt that caught the florescent lights of the office beyond, a silky material maybe, she thought. Her movements were confident. She was an attractive woman, if a little wilful, which, if Helen was honest, she found equally appealing. She contemplated tapping her mug on her desk as if requesting a cup of tea, just to see her reaction to it, with the added bonus of a closer look at her outfit.

  The phone on Helen’s desk rang, making her jump. She answered on the second ring.

  “Are you in the business of promoting your own officers now? I thought that was my job.”

  Helen felt a half-formed smile cross her lips at the familiar voice in her ear. “Grace, or should I say Chief Superintendent Scott? It’s good to hear from you.”

  The slight guttural sound she heard could easily have been mistaken for a fault on the line, but Helen knew she’d touched a nerve without even meaning to. Helen had been in line for the chief super’s job. It was only her strong sense of duty that made her walk away from an all-but-guaranteed promotion four years ago in favour of a transfer out to Warner to look after her ailing foster mother.

  Grace had been in the job for less than a year, and she often found an excuse to call. She had nothing but respect for her friend and colleague, but she still liked to tease her now and then.

  “Well?” Grace let the question hang between them.

  Helen grinned. “Wow! News travels fast uphill. Is my office bugged?”

  “Not yet, but I do have my spies just like you, Helen ‘Fagin’ Taylor.”

  Helen smiled at Grace’s quip, one she often made regarding her approach to community policing.

  “So I see. I promise it’s just informal. More of a carrot rather than the stick approach.”

  “Okay. Go on, let’s hear it.”

  “I figured she’d had enough of the stick for now, so I thought I’d try something different, see if it helps. I’m just giving her a chance. She’s knows it’s not official. She’s replacing a sergeant, so I made her one just while she’s here.”

  Grace blew out a breath. “Leave it to you to try and help an insubordinate officer. Using rank as a motivational tool? That never seemed to work for you.”

  Helen let that slide. She knew her friend was disappointed in her career aspirations. Grace could never fully understand her reasons; she wasn’t close to her family through her own choice, not theirs.

  “So, what’s she like?” Grace asked.

  “Virginia?”

  “What? I thought her name was Kate, Kate Wolfe. Oh, I see. Very good. Virginia Wolfe. You know, if you’ve named her, you’ll have to keep her.”

  “University fast track,” Helen mumbled under her breath, referring to Grace’s educated background. Soon she’d be a minority.

  Looking out of her office window, she saw Kate talking to what looked like PC Davies and wondered if there had been a break in their case when they left the office together.

  “Come on, now. I’m sure Julia told you that you were just as bright as all the other girls.”

  Helen felt a surge of emotion as she thought back to her foster mother in her younger days. “She did, on numerous occasions.”

  “How is Julia?” Grace asked.

  “Not great.”

  Grace was one of her oldest friends, but she didn’t want to talk about it, not now. Work had become Helen’s respite away from Julia’s continued demise.

  “I’m sorry, Helen. If you need some time off, I’m sure I can swing it for you.”

  “No. I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

  Thankfully, Grace changed the subject, already well aware of her reluctance to take time off.

  “So I hear you caught a murder. Must feel like old times.”

  “Umm, more of a mess than a murder.”

  “Sounds right up your street.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember those days filled with frustration, feeling like your hands are tied when the dregs of society are wreaking havoc and ruining people’s lives because there’s no real deterrent to make them think twice about their actions—yep just like old times.” The silence on the line made her regret her outburst. “Sorry,” she said in a small voice.

  “Okay. Why don’t you let me know if there’s anything you need? And keep me informed of your progress,” Grace replied as if trying to regain her position of authority.

  “Yes, ma’am, thank you…ma’am,” Helen said with a chuckle. The silence on the other end of the phone worried her for a second until her friend piped up.

  “Is that insubordination I hear in your voice?”

  “DC—sorry—DS Wolfe.”

  She looked up from her computer, expecting to see a smirk on PC Davies’s face but saw only confusion at her rank.

  “Yep. What can I do for you?”

  “There’s a woman downstairs. She’s wants to talk to a detective about her son. She’s worried he’s missing. He’s not returning her calls. Can’t get any joy with his employer.” His voice was almost apologetic as he finished his sentence.

  Not returning her calls; does that really mean he’s missing? Reluctantly, she grabbed a pen and her notepad. “Lead the way,” she said with a heavy sigh.

  “It’s Mrs Jarvis. She’s just in there,” Davies said as he pointed to the closed door on the right of the corridor.

  Entering the small interview room, she eyed the elderly woman
wiping her nose, eyes red-rimmed; she looked worked up. The thought of having to placate an old lady who had been dumped by her son made her groan inwardly.

  As she introduced herself, she watched nervous hands fiddle with a carrier bag resting on the table that separated them. Opening her notebook, she mentally lined up the questions in her head.

  “Can you give me your son’s full name please, Mrs Jarvis?”

  “Richard Arnold Jarvis.”

  Annabelle Jarvis’s hand shook a little as she pulled out a photograph, still in its metal frame, and handed it to her.

  She scanned it quickly, avoiding the man’s face before setting it down gently on the desk. She couldn’t afford to get roped into this, not…this, not now.

  “Is he employed?” she asked, going through the motions. Gathering the information and not wanting to presume anything, she then remembered Davies had said she’d tried to contact them already. She was getting flustered. She needed to calm down, stay focused. Professional. She just needed to be professional and not get distracted. She sucked in a silent, calming breath as she waited for the woman to answer.

  “Yes. At Dalton and Weeks in Manchester. He’s an architect.” A sense of pride shone through in the older woman’s words as she revealed her son’s occupation, her attention wandering frequently to the framed picture.

  She ignored both the arrogance and the loving gaze on Mrs Jarvis’s face and asked, “When did you last see or speak to him?”

  “He called me two weeks ago, just before I went on holiday.”

  She nodded her head as she made notes. Checking the calendar on her phone, she plotted the day. “Was that the eleventh of February?”

  Mrs Jarvis didn’t take the time to think about her answer. “Yes,” she said almost immediately.

  “Can you tell me what sort of car he drives?” She kept her pen poised, her gaze fixed on her notepad.

  “A red one, big. I’m not sure what it’s called,” Mrs Jarvis dabbed at her eyes with her tissue.

  “Okay. No problem, I’ll look it up later. And when did you last see him?” She asked, knowing a mother would most likely pick up on any obvious changes in her son’s mood.