The Truth Will Out

by Jane Isaac

  Dean hesitated a moment. “Yeah, I saw Pemberton here. God, Helen, I thought you knew. I just… well saw this as an opportunity to get into his house, search for intelligence.” He sounded rattled. “I’m so sorry.”

  She swept his apology under the carpet. “What do we know?”

  He shared how Jenny Wilson had followed the cat’s cries and discovered the body. Helen listened intently, but said nothing. When he finished he cleared his throat, “I had no idea he was in this state, Helen… ”

  She chewed the side of her mouth. Dean had shared that he knew Jules. That he was an unregistered informant. “How long had you two been in contact?”

  “A few months, maybe longer.” His tone softened as he continued, “He wasn’t a bad lad. Not really. Just needed to grow up, and kick the cocaine.”

  She let the words soak in. “Anyone spoken to the neighbour?”

  “We took a statement from her this morning. She’s pretty shaken.”

  Helen recalled Jenny Wilson’s moon-shaped face, Jeremy Kyle on the TV, her interest in the investigation. She remembered how she had felt after seeing her first suicide. For days, weeks, maybe months afterwards, she would see the face in her mind. She felt a pang of empathy.

  “Are we sure it’s suicide?”

  “No doubt, he even left a note… ”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Helen replaced the receiver and turned over the mornings developments in her mind.

  The outward airport and inward ferry tickets found in Eva’s flat sat uncomfortably. Why would Naomi and Eva fly out to Milan for a week in March? She recalled a travel programme she’d watched on Italy a couple of weeks back with her mother. They’d only covered Milan briefly. She tried to remember the draws: shopping, culture... The kaleidoscope of colourful clothing in Naomi’s wardrobe flashed into her mind. But they’d scrutinized Naomi’s bank accounts and the state of her overdraft indicated she certainly wasn’t a candidate for shopping. And with average temperatures chasing fourteen degrees, they weren’t sun seeking either. Culture maybe? But why fly out and drive back? Where did they stay and where did they get the return journey car from?

  Records showed that the informant’s call was made within two hundred metres of Eva’s address, although this was too far away to actually witness the incident. Why had she disappeared on the night of Naomi’s murder?

  She switched to Jules Paton. The evidence found at the scene in Granary Avenue all pointed towards Jules murdering his ex-girlfriend. Gooding estimated Jules had been dead for at least twelve hours. Eva had been sighted in Kinlochard yesterday afternoon before vanishing again. But where was she now?

  Too many questions, too many holes. She clicked another button, brought up the image of the suicide note again and stared at it.

  A knock at her door broke her concentration. Dark’s impish face appeared. “Fancy a coffee, ma’am?”

  Helen nodded. “Thanks. Any news on Eva Carradine?”

  Dark shook her head. “Not yet. They’ve got uniform waiting at the property in Scotland.”

  “What about forensics?”

  “We’ve had preliminaries, but they don’t really tell us anything.”

  As Helen rubbed the side of her face she spotted Jenkins approaching through the incident room. From the buoyancy in his step, she guessed he was already aware of the morning’s developments. Dark followed her eyes. “Think I’d better make that two,” she said and hastily retreated.

  “Helen!” he cried as he entered her office. “I hear you’ve had a bit of a result.”

  “There have been some developments.”

  Jenkins snatched back his sleeve, glanced at his watch. “I’ve a meeting with the assistant chief constable in half an hour. Be good to pass on some positive news.”

  Helen sighed inwardly at his drive for brownie points and gave him an overview of the morning’s events. He remained silent and calm throughout, although she got the distinct impression he already had a heads up on the details and evidence regarding Jules Paton. She finished up, “Whilst we are tying things up, I would like to continue the search for Eva Carradine. I can’t help feeling… ”

  Jenkins sat back in his chair and exhaled loudly. “That won’t be necessary, Helen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It seems pretty straightforward that Jules Paton killed Miss Spence and then himself.”

  “We still don’t know that for sure.”

  His face tightened. “We have the jacket matching the button found in the victim’s hair, a suicide note of admission and a gun that fits the criteria. It’s only a matter of time before ballistics confirm it was the gun used in the attack.”

  “What about the unidentified female informant?” Helen said, feeling every inch of the frown stretch across her forehead.

  Jenkins scratched the side of his nose. “There are always anomalies in a case like this. Killers don’t generally offer explanations. You should know that, Helen.”

  “The call was made within two hundred metres of Eva’s address,” she said vehemently.

  “Anybody could have seen or heard something peculiar, driven home, then pricked their conscience and called an ambulance. More likely it was an acquaintance from the drugs scene. Someone Jules paid to make the call. We may never know. No-one identified her voice and since the actual call can’t be traced to Miss Carradine, there’s no reason to pursue her.”

  “I still think we need to find her, to rule that out.”

  “Helen.” Jenkins’ eyes hardened. “People take time out, for whatever reason. I’m not wasting Hampton’s budget or the resources of any other force looking for a grown adult who decided to take a break in Scotland. I believe she even called her work. She’ll turn up when she’s ready. In the meantime, I want this one wrapped up.”

  “But the timing… ”

  Jenkins shook his head. He stood abruptly, just as Dark entered the room with two coffees. “Inspector Fitzpatrick has offered his team to build the file on this one, which is very decent of him given our tight resources. Get your team to liaise with his, and pass over anything that is relevant. The order has come from above. I want you back on those cold case review shootings. We’re under a lot of pressure there.” With that, he swung out of the office, past Dark who was still clasping two cups of coffee, and was gone, leaving Helen to seethe.

  ***

  Eva pressed her foot on the brake as the lights turned red. The drive to Glasgow had taken an hour, but felt like it passed in an instant. Her head was spinning. Why were the police at Lochside? Were they looking for her? The only person who could help her now, was Naomi.

  The lights changed and she pulled off again. She’d almost reached the city centre, in the midst of Friday lunchtime traffic. The roads were heavily congested. She followed the car in front of her at a snails’ pace past boutiques, a lighting shop, a Chinese takeaway, a sandwich bar. She braked again as a driver tried to squeeze into the tiniest of parking spaces in front. Eva glanced across at the pavement as she waited: a couple walked hand in hand, hoods pulled over their heads to protect them from the gripping wind, a young woman battled with a pushchair and a toddler who was screaming at the top of his voice; a man in a black suit strode out of a newsagent with a file clutched to his chest. Then she saw it, on the corner of the road, a blue iridescent sign in the window - an internet cafe. She could try to contact Naomi from there, via Facebook.

  Her eyes darted about in desperation. A grey concrete multi-storey car park sat barely a hundred yards up. The driver in front of her gave up trying to shoehorn his vehicle into the tiny space and they crawled forward again. She turned at the earliest opportunity into the car park, took a ticket, parked on the second floor, and made her way back up the road.

  Her breaths ran short and sharp as she reached the cafe. A bell tinkled above her head as she entered. The desk was empty and she glanced around, her eyes resting on an aquarium filled with tropical fish, positioned near the door. They moved around the
tank serenely, as if they didn’t have a care in the world. She paused to watch them. They looked so relaxed.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw a movement. A teenage girl had moved away from a computer. She turned and watched her scoop up her jacket from the back of the chair and exit the shop. Eva flipped back to the fish in the aquarium. It suddenly occurred to her that they were a paradox: their whole world existed on a strict balance, a slight change in water temperature, conditions or plant life would initiate stress and they could die. A slight change. Their world could change in an instant. Just like hers…

  She shuddered.

  “Can I help you?” The voice behind her came from nowhere.

  She jumped and turned round to see a teenage boy facing her. A student, she guessed by the grungy clothing, with a scrawny body, screwed up features, a face littered with spots and hair that didn’t look as if it had been brushed in a month. She quickly recovered herself. “I’d like a computer for half an hour.”

  “£8 an hour, or £5 a half.”

  She rummaged in her bag, pulled out a five pound note and handed it over.

  “Thanks, any coffee?”

  She shook her head.

  “Okay, take that one.” He pointed towards the computer at the end, the one just vacated.

  “Thanks.”

  It took less than ten seconds to log into Facebook. Her fingers worked the keys urgently. The anticipation made her tap her feet as the computer changed screens.

  The message that faced her at the top of the screen hit her like a bolt of lightning:

  POLICE ARE APPEALING FOR WITNESSES TO THE MURDER OF NAOMI SPENCE ON TUESDAY 19TH MARCH. IN PARTICULAR THEY WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK TO HER CLOSE FRIENDS, JULES PATON AND EVA CARRADINE. ANYONE KNOWING THEIR WHEREABOUTS SHOULD CONTACT HAMPTON POLICE IMMEDIATELY…

  Eva didn’t get any further. Her breath halted. A pain seared in her chest. Murder?

  She thought back to the scene on Tuesday evening. She had seen a tussle, Naomi had been attacked. But not for one moment had she allowed her brain to entertain the thought that Naomi might have been killed.

  Eva stood. The room swayed around her. She was suffocating, as if a layer of cling film covered her head, blocking her airways. She heard a voice in the background, but failed to focus. The room was swimming.

  She could hear strange noises, notes in the background. Her feet left the ground and she was floating, as if in a dream when the unimaginable becomes reality. She could see Naomi in the distance, her beautiful red hair tumbling over her shoulders. She was laughing, her head thrown back. Then, as she raised it, her face was frozen in alarm as the hand covered her mouth.

  A tugging sensation. Her feet scraped the floor.

  Suddenly, a blast of cold air hit Eva directly in the face. She blinked hard, twice. Took very deep breaths. Slowly, in and out. Her vision started to clear.

  Eva could see people in the window of a cafe opposite, a man on a mobile phone on the pavement nearby. A couple walked past hand in hand. A car horn beeped in the distance.

  “Are you alright, Miss?”

  She followed the voice, looked up into the eyes of the grungy lad who had taken her money.

  “Miss?”

  Her thoughts spiralled. She blinked, then turned and ran.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Nate grabbed two bottles of Cobra beer from the fridge, popped the tops and offered one to his uncle who sat in an armchair, arms placed on each rest, head relaxed back. His bald head glistened in the light of the bare bulb overhead. Dark eyes stared at the ceiling.

  When his uncle didn’t acknowledge his presence, Nate placed the beer on a small table, decorated with coffee mug and beer bottle rings. Loose ash from the overflowing ashtray in the centre skipped into the air as the bottle hit the hard surface.

  Nate heard raised voices in the street outside: a high-pitched woman screeched words he couldn’t decipher, a low husky tone shouted over her. A door slammed shut. All was quiet.

  “You did good, Nate,” his uncle eventually said. He gave a slight nod, but his eyes were still fixed on the ceiling.

  Although Nate swelled inwardly, he had learnt not to show his feelings. It might look arrogant. And his uncle hated arrogance. Instead he stared at the only human being who had ever shown him any kindness, awestruck.

  Nate barely remembered his mother. He recalled occasional moments with a woman he later identified from photographs as his mother: a tiny, mouse-like face, crowned with short dirty blond hair, pallid skin, vacant eyes. As a young boy he remembered being in a room with her and stubbing his toe on a door. He’d cried out, rushed to hug her. As they collided she’d frozen. Her hard eyes and closed frame formed an image so vivid it lodged in his memory. And from that moment on, he avoided contact. But whenever she was present, the air felt tight, the tension palpable.

  Uncle Chilli lowered his chin to make eye contact. He let the stare linger slightly before he spoke, “Make yourself scarce now, son. I’m expecting company.”

  Nate showed no reaction, just stood, exited the lounge and climbed the staircase.

  He reached his bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. A grubby, unkempt duvet spilt out of its case next to him. Nate glanced at his watch. Six thirty. He folded his arms behind his head and lay back. Time to open the club soon. He knew his uncle had done a stretch, but he never discussed his crime or his prison life with Nate. Since his release, he’d built a business running Black Cats nightclub and bar, extending his empire to include a couple of nail bars more recently, yet Nate knew it was his secret operations, the drugs supply and prostitution, that were the real earners. Officially, Nate was on the payroll as a bouncer and driver, although his favourite jobs were the undercover ‘special assignments’ and, in recent years, Chilli had entrusted many more of these to him.

  He rolled his eyes as he recognised a pair of knickers with a black lace trim on the floor. Bloody hookers. On his sixteenth birthday his uncle had thrown a party in the club’s private room. He was introduced to the girls and asked to pick. They all looked the same to him, all ass and tits.

  One approached him, sat on his lap and thrust her tongue into his mouth. He remembered that moment like it was yesterday. He could taste a mixture of garlic, and cheese and onion crisps. He’d pushed her off roughly, too roughly and she fell to the ground. His uncle had taken him to one side, ‘We don’t hurt the girls, son,’ he’d said. ‘They can’t earn if they’re sick.’ Enough said.

  Since that evening there were always girls available when Nate needed them. He was mechanical, dismissing them when his needs were satisfied. He didn’t raise his hand to any of them again, and he didn’t kiss them on the lips either. You never knew where those dirty lips had been.

  A noise downstairs caught his attention. It sounded like a chair had been knocked over, a glass crashed to the floor. Raised voices followed. He heard his uncle’s cutting words above them, “It’s not good enough!” Nate sat perfectly still. His hand raked across the acne pits on his face. Chilli shouted a lot these days.

  Nate grabbed his Xbox remote control and selected ‘Call of Duty’. While the game loaded he thought about his uncle’s associates. One day, he would be involved in these meetings. One day, he would be at the centre of the operation, take over from his uncle. He fisted his hands, knocked his knuckles together. Clink, clink, clink. Then he really would be THE MAN.

  ***

  Helen’s shoes beat the linoleum flooring on her way to Dean’s office, late that afternoon. She still smarted from her conversation with Jenkins, convinced that the disappearance of Eva Carradine was connected to the investigation. If she could get Dean on side, perhaps they could join forces to persuade the powers that be to keep tabs on Eva?

  Dean’s team were located on the floor below Helen in one of the spare suites kept for review teams, incident rooms and special projects. Faces turned as she entered the suite. She recognised a few members of his team she’d seen around the station and tipped her head at
them. The layout of the room was the same as the Homicide and Major Incident suite and she made for Dean’s office in the corner. The blinds were drawn.

  Just as she raised her fist to knock on his door, she heard a voice behind her, “Can I help you?”

  She turned on her heels to face a young detective in a tailored, black suit. Her dark hair was cropped severely short. “I’m here to see Inspector Fitzpatrick.”

  “He’s a bit busy at the moment.”

  Helen widened her eyes. “I’m sure he’ll spare me five minutes.”

  The detective stared back at her protectively. Just then a voice piped up from the back of the room, “It’s alright Maggie, you can let the DCI through.” Helen followed the voice to DS Edwards who had just walked through the door.

  The young DC flushed immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t realise… ”

  Helen managed a kind smile. Rank in senior detectives wasn’t always obvious when they were in plain clothes. “It’s fine, really.” The young DC moved away hastily to hide her embarrassment. Helen nodded to Edwards, knocked once and entered, without waiting for invitation.

  Like Helen’s, Dean’s desk faced the door. He sat behind it. He was bent forward, head buried in arms that were folded in front of him, his phone scattered haphazardly to his side. He looked up, startled at her intrusion.

  She paused fleetingly, then pulled the door closed behind her and approached his desk. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded and smiled weakly, but his face was flat.

  She inclined her head to the door. “Had a job to get through security!”

  When he didn’t respond, Helen suddenly became aware of something. She’d never seen cracks appear in his calm façade before. He’d always been confident and in control. She couldn’t help but wonder – in the short time they were together – did he ever really let her in? She thought she knew him so well. There was a time when she would have claimed to know him better than anyone.

  “What’s up?” she asked.