by Mari Hannah
She shivered.
It was getting chilly.
Pulling her coat collar up for warmth, Kate glanced to her left as Hank arrived by her side. Looking every bit as exhausted as she felt, he handed her Hedley’s suicide note, already in an evidence bag. The note was written in fountain pen, the message short and to the point, his handwriting shaky, a watery splodge on the last line of the note she suspected might be tears.
Beth
By the time you read this I’ll be dead. When I heard about Elliott I thought he’d killed himself because of me. We fought before the show, a stupid argument, not even worth mentioning. He called me later, full of himself for winning his bout. I refused to meet him and put the phone down. I know now that he was murdered but I feel responsible. He was my world – I can’t live without him. I’m sorry.
Rich
A combination of grief and fury swamped the DCI. Beth Casey would be devastated by this news.
‘What do you reckon?’ Hank asked.
‘To the note?’ Kate shrugged. ‘Very sad, a bloody waste – I could go on. Are we even sure it’s him?’
‘Pretty sure.’ Hank held up a second evidence bag containing the lad’s college ID. ‘You believe what he wrote in the letter?’
‘Sounds plausible. We know from his phone records that Elliott rang him several times on Saturday. When he did get through, the conversation was short. Why? You think he was involved with his boyfriend’s death and couldn’t live with the guilt?’
‘The thought crossed my mind.’
‘Mine too, but not for long. If Hedley were about to hang himself, don’t you think he’d have told the truth? I know I would. Look at the size of him. He must be what, ten, eleven stone. Hardly built to haul a dead weight onto an ancient gallows tree, is he?’ Kate’s eyes travelled the length of Hedley’s body. ‘Isn’t he a bit slight to be a wrestler?’
‘It’s all in the legs, Kate. The longer they are, the more advantage you have. When they lock hands behind each other’s backs it’s hard to unbalance an opponent who’s much taller than you, let alone dump them on their arse. C’mon, I know where there’s a flask of mediocre coffee, if you’d like some.’ Hank knew that standing around doing nothing was something she found difficult.
Kate appreciated his thoughtfulness. ‘I’m craving gin, not coffee made hours ago. Give Carmichael a ring, would you? I need a handwriting comparison to confirm Hedley actually wrote this.’ She held up the note. ‘Beth told me his parents live in Brighton. Lisa can get the ball rolling while we’re out. Tell her I want them traced and spoken to by Sussex Police ASAP.’
Stanton pulled car keys from Hedley’s pocket, along with a fountain pen, possibly the one he’d used to write the note. Kate’s eyes once again fell on the victim. She’d attended enough hangings to know that he’d been there a while. There was a groove on his throat where the ligature had dug into his skin. No other injuries as there had been in the case of Elliott Foster. Except . . . She leaned in closer, examining a minute amount of blood on Hedley’s lower lip.
‘Has he bitten his tongue?’ she asked.
Tim Stanton raised his head. ‘Correct.’
Kate scanned the scene.
A rotten log lay on its side not far from the overhanging branch of the tree. Hedley had placed the noose around his neck, kicking it far enough away to do the business. Once it was gone, even if the poor bugger changed his mind at the last minute he was done for, a thought too awful to contemplate.
With nothing to do but wait, Kate considered the suicide in light of what she already knew. Two connected hangings – days apart. Young men she now knew to be lovers. Their lives destroyed, directly or indirectly, by the actions of one or more offenders who so far had eluded the law. The depressing thought spurred Kate into action. She’d obtain proof. Find the person or persons responsible. She owed it to Elliott and to Richard.
50
It was late, almost nine thirty, when they got back to the incident room. On Hank’s say-so, team members had already packed up and gone home, put on notice to report at seven a.m. sharp. There was only one update on the murder wall: Adam Foster – interview report in my in-tray. DS Robson’s initials were scribbled next to it. Because Hank had been called away to the gruesome discovery in Harbottle Forest, rather than cancel or reschedule, Robson had taken the initiative and stepped in to interview Elliott’s brother and written it up. Kate was lucky to have two DSs she could rely on.
The report was comprehensive. She speed-read the document, along with an attached note informing her that an even fuller statement had been passed to admin to be typed up first thing in the morning. Robson had called it how he saw it: the soldier was in the clear and that was good enough for her.
Hank arrived at her elbow. ‘What you reading?’
‘Robbo’s report on Adam Foster.’ Rolling her eyes, she gave a shake of the head. ‘Unbelievable! The army omitted to tell us that he was no longer operational when he went AWOL. He’s an Afghanistan amputee with aspirations to return to active duty or else work in a support role behind enemy lines. After a period of recuperation, they sent him to Germany to see how that might work out for both sides.’
‘He’s office based?’
She tapped the report. ‘It’s all in here. He has a few, shall we say, ongoing problems: one arm, a gammy leg, psychological issues . . . a heavy dose of survivor guilt, according to those treating him. No wonder that mouthy civilian I told you about gave the military police and me such a hard time when he was lifted. Make sure he gets a caution. In fact, write him off as NFA.’ Kate sighed. ‘Adam posed no threat to the army. He’s a mess. Confidentially, the military are considering his discharge as we speak.’
‘So why go missing?’
‘He got wind of the fact that they were going to bounce him.’
‘He jumped before he was pushed?’
Kate nodded.
‘I’d probably have done the same in his shoes,’ Hank said. Kate’s anger grew as she read on. ‘What a despicable way to treat a veteran who laid his life on the line for Queen and country. He must be gutted and wondering what it was all for. Robbo reckons he’s on the edge of a breakdown. His brother’s murder might just push him over.’
‘I’m pretty close to the edge myself.’ Hank yawned, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. He had an impressive five o’clock shadow and dark circles under his eyes.
‘Bizarrely, this report makes our job a lot easier. Adam is out of the frame – he couldn’t have killed his brother without a great deal of help. If Stanton references Hedley off as a sure-fire suicide, our list of suspects gets smaller.’
‘The way I like it,’ Hank said.
Her eyes shifted to the A4 sheet in his hand. ‘What’s that?’
‘A précis of a coroner’s report on Jane Gibson’s son.’
‘Verdict?’
‘Straightforward suicide following a prolonged and well-documented period of mental illness according to medical records gathered at the time.’ Hank yawned again. Apologized. ‘He’d been sectioned twice and treated at St Mary’s numerous times.’
‘I thought the old asylum had closed down.’
‘It did,’ Hank confirmed. ‘This was late eighties, early nineties, following unsuccessful attempts by Gibson to do away with himself. Not a happy family, were they?’
‘No.’ Kate went quiet, guilt over her father rearing its ugly head again, tormenting her as it had done all evening. There had been no calls from Jo. No update on his condition since Kate had bolted from the hospital without seeing him.
In her mind, she ticked off several other distressing family dramas: Elliott’s parents had washed their hands of him, his grandmother, Jane Gibson, taking over their role as guardian; Beth had chosen to end it because of her father’s despicable behaviour; Richard Hedley had left Brighton to make a life in Northumberland. Had he run away too?
When would she stop doing the same?
For years Kate had tried to pull th
e veil away, to be seen for the person she was and not the unattached free spirit she pretended to be. Atkins was the reason she hadn’t managed to achieve it. He’d found her Achilles’ heel and she hated him for it. It was the one area of her life in which she was weak – the single most important area. She hated herself for lacking the moral fibre to stand up and be counted as a lesbian. Every time she had tried – and there had been many – she bottled it, building an opaque shell around her so that no one could see in or observe her too closely, her skills as a copper, and later as a detective, soaking up the majority of their interest.
‘Go home to your family, Hank.’
He stood his ground, his eyes on her. He felt her sadness, even though he knew nothing of the reason behind it. He probably assumed it was because she’d missed her leave, or because they had fallen out over it. Her attention wandered again. An explanation wasn’t the only thing she owed Hank.
There was so much more to it than that . . .
There were times when her approach to her work was unconventional. She wasn’t afraid to fly solo, beneath the radar of professional standards. When her questionable tactics landed her in trouble, as they invariably did, he stood by her, offering unconditional friendship and support, took her arsey comments on the chin, covering for her when she bent the rules. He deserved her thanks and her honesty.
In the morning she’d tell him the truth – the whole truth and nothing but the truth – about Atkins, her father’s coronary, all of it, assuming they could steal an hour together. Now was no time to broach the subject. It was far too late for such a momentous heart-to-heart. He’d not sleep with it on his mind and he’d bend her ear for not confiding in him sooner.
Tomorrow . . .
‘Get your coat,’ she said. ‘I need you out of my hair, tucked up in bed where you belong.’ She raised a hand to the objection before he managed to voice it. ‘I’ll be leaving myself shortly, I promise. I’ve got a few bits and pieces to finish up and then I’m out of here too.’
‘If something is bothering you, I’m happy to stick around and talk it through.’
‘I’m fine, Hank. I’m going to make myself a brew and call Jo.’ That seemed to do the trick. ‘I’ll be working in my office though, so turn off the lights on your way out, please.’ She stared at the fluorescent tubing above her head. ‘That flickering bulb is doing my head in.’ As soon as he was gone, Kate went straight to her office and shut the door. With only a desk lamp for company, she reached for the phone and dialled Jo’s number.
51
Jo picked up before the ringing tone hit Kate’s ear, as if she’d been waiting for the opportunity to have it out with her for having run off, rather than face her father. Kate took a deep breath. She deserved whatever was coming her way. In semi-darkness, she felt the temperature plummet before a word had been exchanged between them.
She didn’t need to see Jo’s face to know that she was pissed off.
No one with any common sense would attempt to justify a wrong if they were out of order. The only thing Kate could do was to offer a heartfelt apology. With no influence over what reception it might get, she mentally crossed her fingers, hoping it would suffice.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘What happened earlier was unforgiveable.’ She echoed what she had told Jo in the hospital: ‘If you’ll let me, I can explain—’
‘Do you mean earlier this afternoon earlier, or tonight’s visiting time earlier?’ Jo spat out her disapproval with much venom. ‘You have so many apologies to make, I can hardly keep up.’
‘I fully intended coming to see him tonight, I—’
‘So why didn’t you?’
An icy silence followed for a beat or two. There was a limit to Jo’s patience. However tolerant a person she was – and she was, very – it was clear that she’d had as much as she could take of Kate’s nonsense. Pushed too far, she was bound to retaliate.
Kate closed her eyes, the darkness transporting her back to Harbottle, to that spongy forest floor she’d been tempted to lie down on and fall asleep. It would be several hours before she could do that. ‘There was another suspicious death,’ she said finally. ‘Elliott Foster’s boyfriend hung himself – my attendance wasn’t optional.’
‘I’ll tell your old man that you’ll be there if he ever makes it to the morgue, shall I?’ Jo said. ‘No doubt he’ll find it very reassuring.’
Kate pressed her lips together, resisting the urge to laugh out loud. Her ex sounded more like Hank every day. Kate was under no illusions. The words were humorous but not remotely funny. Jo was hurt. More than hurt: she was distressed, disappointed, angry – arguably so – and poised to have a go. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that she was on the verge of losing her temper big-style.
She certainly wasn’t finished . . .
‘Let’s not pretend that you are any more interested in your father than he is in you, shall we? I’m fed up with both of you. If you want my honest opinion, you deserve each other.’
Kate didn’t argue.
It wasn’t always so.
There was a time when she and her father were inseparable, when every moment they spent together was precious and fun. From an early age, she’d realized he was a petrol-head. She’d accompany him to Croft Aerodrome or Oliver’s Mount in Scarborough to watch the motorcycling, just the two of them. He’d taught her how to ride on a strip of private land where it mattered not that she was under age. He’d introduced her to Hartside Pass, a location she loved, her destination of choice since she’d grown up and joined the force, the place she escaped to whenever she needed to think through a heavy case. She rode on his pillion, just ten years old the first time they went there, already an adrenalin junkie.
As a little girl, she adored him.
As she got older, nothing she did pleased him. He hated the clothes she wore as a teenager, the career she chose and, later, the company she kept – especially that. She wasn’t feminine enough, nor considerate like other girls. She was selfish and single-minded, putting her career above all else.
Why can’t you be more like Tracey?
Tracey was a girl who lived nearby, a Barbie doll with nowt between her ears and even less to say. Did he really want her to turn into pink mush, continually pregnant with no life of her own? Kate had a brain. She wanted to make a difference, not babies.
She felt suddenly weary. ‘It’s complicated, Jo—’
‘When was it any other?’ Jo fell silent. Kate thought she was going to calm down. She couldn’t have been more wrong. She was just getting started. ‘I’m sick of lame excuses that don’t stack up. It might come as a surprise but you are not the only DCI in the force. The Northeast won’t descend into anarchy if you’re not at work. My suitcase is packed. I thought you were up for it this time—’
‘I am, was—’
‘I thought you could . . .’ Jo choked on her words. ‘I thought you would put us, me, at the top of your agenda just the once.’ An ominous gap opened up in the conversation. It had Kate wondering if Jo was in tears at the other end. She wasn’t. ‘I was kidding myself, Kate. The holiday was a pipe-dream. I know you’ll never change. I’m sorry, I can’t do this any more. I think we’re done.’
It felt like a body blow. Winding Kate. Wounding her. In the pit of her stomach something died instantly. This was a defining moment, the fatal car crash she’d seen coming but was powerless to prevent. Her life was about to change in the worst way possible.
She pleaded. ‘Jo, please don’t do this. I need you—’
‘As nursemaid to your old man?’
‘No! I didn’t ask you to sit with him. You offered.’
Bad choice of words . . .
When the phone went down Kate let out a scream of rage. She’d blown it this time. Seconds later, it rang. She snatched it off the desk, lifted it to her ear.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Please, please forgive me?’
‘Why? What have you done?’ It was the pathologist, Su Morri
ssey.
Covering the speaker, Kate shut her eyes, bit down hard, trying to batten down her emotions. With Jo’s words echoing in her head, refusing to leave, she was incapable of speech . . .
I think we’re done . . .
I think we’re done.
Taking in a breath, Kate let it out again, removing her hand from the speaker. Her voice was flat calm. ‘My apologies, Su. I thought you were someone else.’
‘Clearly . . . Well, you’re forgiven.’
‘I doubt it.’ She knew it.
‘I meant by me.’
‘I gathered that.’
‘Tough day?’
‘I’ve had worse.’
‘Not many, I bet. Anything I can do to help?’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘Good, because I’m about to heap more bad news on you – the eyelets on Chris Collins’ boots don’t match the injuries on Elliott’s face.’ Hanging up, Kate looked at the phone. When one door closes, another slams in your face.
52
Next morning, Kate woke early, Scotty’s words popping into her head the minute she opened her eyes. He’s lying through his teeth. He wears cargo pants and desert boots all the time. Thinks he’s a bloody paratrooper. She showered quickly, got dressed and texted Jo before she left the house. Having received nothing back, she called her landline and mobile on the way in to work.
No answer.
Bypassing the MIR, with no time to indulge her personal crisis, Kate went straight to the exhibits room and signed for all five of the mobile phones seized from her prisoners at the time of their arrest. She took them to her office, put on a brew and sat down to examine them. Two hours later, she’d uploaded all the evidence she needed to put the frighteners on Gardner and his mates. She was ready to face the team.
‘I’ve got twenty photographs of Gardner, in different locations, on different days,’ she said. ‘There’s not a pair of trainers to be seen, so round of applause for Scotty please.’ She clapped her hands together silently, smiling at the blushing officer. ‘In every picture, Gardner is wearing big boots. I’ve just come from the cells. He still denies owning any. Claims he used to. They wore out and he threw them away months ago. I want his house searched again, inside and out: sheds, garden, coalbunker, refuse bins – the lot.’
