Payback

by Charlotte Mills

  “Yes, I was there.”

  “Was there anyone else with you?”

  Curtis just looked at Helen, unable to formulate words, his face blank.

  “We have a witness that heard voices at the house in the afternoon.”

  Curtis’s lips formed a straight line for a second before speaking. “No. I was just talking to myself.”

  “Our witness heard shouting, Curtis, not just talking,” Helen clarified.

  “I was angry.”

  “What were you so angry about?”

  “Just stuff,” Curtis mumbled reluctantly.

  “Tell me what happened later, when you went back to the house on Morley Lane.”

  Curtis closed his eyes as she spoke. “I waited till everyone was in bed, took the can of petrol from behind the shed. Then I walked back to the house where the old man was. It was quiet. I sat there for a while, smoking. I didn’t want to burn him. It just—it didn’t seem right. You know?” He looked almost hopeful as he said it. Like he was just hoping someone would understand what he’d done. “He was already dead. I just wanted someone to find him. So I made sure the fire was away from him.” Hope faded and was replaced by a look of pride. He’d set a goal, and he’d achieved it. She could kind of understand why he’d be proud of his actions. Well, almost.

  She felt Helen nudge her foot under the table. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Helen’s glare urging her to take notes. She quickly made some bullet points on Curtis’s actions as Helen continued.

  “Tell me about the fire at the garages off Green Lane.”

  To her relief, Curtis seemed remorseful. He wanted to talk, set things straight. Looking past Curtis, she could see Maria Whiting had her head in her hands.

  “I—I thought they were abandoned. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

  “I know that, Curtis. I just need you to tell me what happened that night.”

  Curtis held his head in his hands as he spoke. His tone was soft. “It was late. My brother was drinking beer in the back garden. I was in the shed. He went inside for something. I ran off with the beer before he came back. I heard him shouting as I went up the road. I just wandered around. You know? Just walking.” He shrugged. “Ended up by Green Lane. One of the garages was open. There was no one around, so I went inside. There were some aerosol cans on a shelf. I just wanted to see if they popped when they went up. Like fireworks or firecrackers or whatever. You know? I was just—I just wanted to know. There was a petrol can in the corner. So I poured a little bit around them, and lit it.”

  Knowing that most arsonists stick around to see the fruits of their labour, she went for it. She knew she was butting in, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Why didn’t you stop that man from running in and getting hurt?”

  “I wanted to, but then a couple of his mates turned up. There must have been something else in there. It spread so quickly. The garage next door went up before I could do anything.”

  “Other than the petrol you used, you mean,” she said louder than she intended to.

  Curtis ducked his head back into his folded arms.

  Helen placed a hand on her arm, fixing her with a stare. “Could you get Curtis a drink?”

  “Sure.” She took the hint. She knew she’d fucked up, pushed too hard.

  “For the tape, acting DS Wolfe is leaving the room.”

  She quietly closed the door behind her, asking the uniformed officer waiting outside to organise a drink for Curtis. Reluctantly, she headed back to her desk to be productive in some other way. Picking up Karen Hill’s case file, she swallowed hard as she read through it. She made a note to inform Helen of her findings.

  Disappointed with her lack of self-control, she began to work through the list of potential hit-and-run cars. After numerous phone calls, the list had been reduced to a grand total of thirty-three cars, none of which had any links to the Whitings that she could see. Her shoulders slumped at the high number still on the list. Seeing the taxi driver’s name was still on it, not once but twice, she contacted the DVLA. The woman on the other end of the phone was very helpful. Sensing a bit of light at the end of the tunnel, she made notes as she replaced the phone in its cradle.

  “Kate.”

  Stood in the doorway of her office was Helen, her face expressionless. Before she disappeared back into her office, her nod beckoned.

  She made her way across the room. She was fully expecting another bollocking. Helen was already seated behind her desk now. She pushed the door closed behind her. She didn’t want everyone to hear how shit she was.

  “Curtis has admitted all of the fires. CPS is happy,” Helen announced. “He’s just finishing his statement. I don’t think there was any real intent to endanger life.”

  The grin on Helen’s face helped to ease her fears. “And Sandy?” she asked.

  “No.” She shook her head. “It’s not the Whitings. I believed him when he said he only found Sandy at the house the day before he set the fire. He just wanted him to be found.”

  “Why didn’t he just make a phone call?” she queried.

  “Who knows?”

  She let out a satisfied breath, relieved that they could close at least one of their cases.

  “I just spoke to Curtis’s mother; she said his father had disappeared recently,” Helen sat back in her chair, blowing out a breath as she rested her head back. “Ran off with another woman. A couple of weeks later, the fires started being reported. Maria came home from shopping one day to find that his father had just packed up and left.”

  “Shit.” Maybe Curtis just wanted his dad to come back. Not that she could relate to that, having never known her own father; but she knew how it felt to lose someone.

  “Apparently, the shed was his dad’s domain. He cleared it out when he left. Curtis started hanging out in there after that.”

  She waited a few beats before trying to excuse her behaviour in the interview room. “Guv, I’m sorry about earlier. I still have a lot to learn about interviewing suspects.”

  “Forget it. Everyone has their strong points. If it wasn’t for your work on the CCTV, we wouldn’t even be in this position.”

  “We make a great team.” She winked, grateful for Helen’s words once again. “See you tomorrow.” She turned to leave but stopped before taking a step, remembering her news. When she turned back to face Helen, she caught a familiar smile.

  “So, Taxi Malc has a new car, silver Hyundai Solaris, which is a possible for the hit-and-run.” Although it was more ‘hit and take’ in Sandy’s case. “His old car was a silver Prius, again a possible, which, so Malc told the DVLA, had apparently been crushed in a scrapyard outside Manchester. But he has yet to produce the V5C part of the log book to them.”

  Helen leant forward in her chair. “Malcolm Walters, he’s a pretty quiet guy, never in any trouble, as far as I know. More importantly, why would he do it? What could his motive have been? No skid marks. Drinking maybe? That would put the kibosh on his taxi business. Could it be as simple as wrong place, wrong time? How many have you managed to narrow it down to now?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Thirty-something.” The infectious smile on Helen’s face made her do the same. “And there’s nothing back from the garages about repairs yet.”

  “What about Sandy’s squeezes?”

  She noted her choice of word, pursing her lips in reply. “Uniform is checking out the alibis for Frances Moody’s sons for the time of Sandy’s murder.” She took a breath for the next bit of news. “According to the medical report, Karen Hill was two months’ pregnant when she committed suicide.”

  Helen nodded, a thoughtful look on her face. “We’re getting closer,” she said and stood as if to emphasise the point. She moved around the desk to reach for her. She felt the warmth of Helen’s fingers as they trailed down her arm, interlocking with her fingers. “Now, don’t b
e late tomorrow. 6 p.m.”

  She used her thumb to rub the side of Helen’s hand. “I’ll be there.”

  Chapter 17

  As she made her way down the darkened path towards Helen’s hidden-away home, the uneven footing made her keep her eyes on the ground. The glint of the smooth cobbles was highlighted by the light outside Helen’s house. She frowned at it. Helen must have turned it on for her benefit, like luring a moth to the flame. She had been looking forward to having Helen to herself all day.

  She was surprised by the detached house’s grandeur. It had some age, much like the police station, but she hoped it hadn’t suffered the same crude modernising. In front of the large wooden door, she reached out to press the doorbell, then realised it was a pull mechanism. She pulled it briskly twice.

  “It’s open.”

  She pushed on the door. “Hello!” she called as she dropped the catch on the front door before closing it.

  “In here.” Helen poked her head into the hallway.

  “That’s very trusting, considering there’s a murderer on the loose.” She made her way down the hallway, past several closed doors.

  “You’re the only angry doorbell ringer I know.”

  “What?” She reached the kitchen and looked around, surprised by how large the room was and by the abundance of professional equipment that occupied the space.

  Helen glanced at Kate, a grin on her face. “I’ve had the pleasure of witnessing several angry doorbell pressings over the last couple of weeks.”

  “I see.”

  She placed two bottles of wine to the side as she took in the sight of an off-duty Helen Taylor: dressed in jeans, a loose-fitting, blue-checked shirt, and with thick socks pulled over the bottom of her jeans, she looked very sexy. Kate licked her lips in anticipation. “I’m trying to figure out what’s worse: being called Virginia, or being known as the angry doorbell presser.”

  Helen turned to face her, wooden spoon in hand. “Tough choice.”

  Blowing on the spoon, she stepped across the room closer to her. “Taste this,” she said and offered the spoon up to her mouth.

  Locking her gaze with Helen’s, she hesitated for a second before tasting the offering. “Wow!”

  The unmistakable creamy coconut flavour of korma filled her mouth, a light spicy citrus edge cutting through the buttery aftertaste. “That’s—”

  Helen beamed at her reaction. “Good?”

  She nodded her approval. “That’s amazing. I can see why you have all this fancy equipment now.”

  “Not all coppers live off takeaways, you know.”

  “I can see that,” she responded.

  “How’s the head?”

  “Hard, thankfully,” she replied, brushing over the topic, even though she had actually spent most of the day in bed, resting up.

  Helen held her ground in front of her, and leaning forward, she captured her lips in a soft kiss and mouthed, “Hi.”

  She wanted more, she grabbed Helen’s shirt, pulling her closer, bringing their lips together with slightly more force. Helen leaned in, deepening the kiss.

  “Hi,” She replied as she held Helen’s eyes for just a moment before Helen pulled away. Her attention refocused on the saucepan. It was an opportune moment to catch her breath.

  “Don’t feel too bad about the doorbell thing. Richards was a bread strangler.”

  “A what?” The bottle opener was on the worktop. She’d overheard plenty about her predecessor in the office, but nothing relating to his bread proclivities.

  “When his wife was pregnant, she’d give him a shopping list of things he needed to pick up before he went home. We’d end up stopping off when we were out and about, when he bought French bread he’d squeeze the life out of the baguettes, looking for the freshest one.”

  She sniggered. “Well, you’ve got an eyebrow thing going on, so people in glass houses, and so on.”

  Helen turned to her, a worried look on her face. “What eyebrow thing?”

  “You know that arched brow thing you do?” Her voice had turned tight as she plucked out the cork with a little too much elation. “When you want someone to tell you more. You used it on Slim Jim and several other unsuspecting individuals.” Including me.

  Helen checked the rice in the steamer and smiled over at her. “I said you didn’t need to bring anything.”

  “I know, but my mother always said to never turn up empty-handed if someone’s going to the effort to cook for you.” She looked around, taking in the adjoining room with a dining table. It was warm and homely, but with a refined edge compared to her rustic cottage. “This place is amazing. To quote someone I heard recently, ‘It’s very you.’” Spotting the two wine glasses on the side, she filled them both and took a quick sip of her own to calm her nerves.

  Helen looked across the room, cocking an eyebrow at Kate’s words. “Thanks. It’s a work in progress. There’s still a lot to do. When I bought it, I had to do a lot of work before I could even move in: leaky roof to fix, new ceilings, new flooring and plastering. Would you like a quick tour?” She turned down the heat under the saucepan.

  “Yeah.” She put her glass down on the worktop before turning to face Helen, who moved into the hallway and stood outside the closed door facing them.

  “Now, this room has yet to be finished. Parts of the timber panelling had to be taken off to repair some damp around the fireplace.”

  Helen opened the door and switched on the light, revealing a partially clad room. The naked light bulb exposed the bare walls scattered with areas of pink plaster. Fresh floorboards were visible near the fireplace on the far wall. There was warm ochre timber panelling on the opposite wall with a built-in bookshelf. This was going to be an impressive room when it was finished.

  “Wow! This panelling is beautiful. Is it oak?” She ran her hand along the surface. The moulded detail and craftsmanship were both very tactile under her touch as well as aesthetically pleasing to the eye.

  “Uh, yeah. I think so. I’ve got to get a joiner to make up some new panels to match the ones that were damaged.”

  She nodded, fascinated by the original workmanship as she followed Helen back into the hallway, where Helen hovered at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Upstairs is a bit more finished, but that will have to wait. I think dinner’s ready.”

  She attempted to help as Helen moved around the kitchen like a Tasmanian devil, decanting their meal into self-serve bowls, plucking naan breads from the oven. She did her best to stay out of her way as she collected the wine glasses, taking them to the dining table.

  Setting the bowls on the table, Helen took her seat and said, “I don’t want to talk shop, but just to keep you in the picture, I had to field a few phone calls today on our case.”

  “Sandy?” she questioned, frustrated that Helen didn’t actually get a day off. The price of rank.

  Helen nodded. “They wanted to know what progress we’d made and when we’d be making an arrest for his murder now that they know he’s not just a tramp.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Well, I said we hoped to be making an arrest in the next couple of days. We still had some background work to do on possible vehicles and their owners and a few leads from Sandy’s past.”

  “And did that satisfy them?”

  “For now. Anyway, enough of that. Help yourself,” Helen said with a wave of her hand. “So, what made you become a police officer?”

  She paused for a moment before speaking, suddenly not hungry anymore. An uneasy feeling filled her stomach. Her head was thick with images she’d struggled to forget. Blinking away the moisture in her eyes she began her story. “When I was a child, my best friend was abused by someone her family trusted. It was before all this grooming stuff was so widely understood. Anyway, he got away with it, and I—I couldn’t understand how he d
idn’t get sent to jail. I knew it was wrong.” Reluctant to say more, she realised she needed to change the subject.

  Helen nodded. “Justice can be hard to come by sometimes. I’m sorry. It must have been very confusing for you back then. You were a child. I mean, it’s understandable why people decide to take things into their own hands sometimes.” Helen slowly put down her fork, resting her hands on the table.

  She held her tongue, trying to hide her surprise at Helen’s words.

  “Drink drivers are my Achilles heel. I worked a case years ago—a businessman mowed down a woman and her two grandchildren on a crossing in the middle of the day, killed two of them outright. The youngest died later in hospital.”

  She considered how many times Helen must have had had to bite her tongue and just accept her hands were tied when it came to doling out real justice. “What happened to the driver?”

  “Shitbag barrister got him off with just losing his licence for eighteen months and a two-year suspended sentence. Criminals can buy their way out of prison these days. But, then, they’re not the ones that have to go and tell the families that their relatives are dead, are they?”

  Unsure of exactly how to tackle that subject, she just kept quiet, nodding her agreement.

  “Sorry.” Helen picked up her fork again. “So, are you still friends?”

  “No.” She reached for another piece of naan bread. She wasn’t ready to tell her everything yet. It was too soon. “What made you move here from Manchester?” she deflected.

  “My foster mother moved to just outside Warner when she retired. A few years ago, she started developing Alzheimer’s. I got a transfer out here; she sold her house and we lived here for a while with a nurse, but it got too much. She lives in a care home now. She was diagnosed with breast cancer three months ago…”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” Putting down her fork, she reached across the table for Helen’s hand.

  Helen met her eyes. “It’s okay. I was taken into care when I was six. Luckily, I was fostered about four months later. One of the fortunate ones, when you think of the kids we come into contact with.”