"Well, people don't like the police very much, do they, Tammy? I told you that when you first joined. Is that why you and Conrad didn't hit it off?"
"Who?" The name meant nothing to her.
"Conrad… I introduced you to him last week at the reception. Remember? Perfect fit for you, I reckon."
"Oh, yes, of course. Him. I think his wife being there had more to do with the lack of progress, to be honest."
"Wife? Ah… I missed that." Francesca sipped at her wine.
"Hmm… maybe next time do a little more homework before you pair me off with someone, yes," Tamara said dryly. "Actually, perhaps you don't pair me off with anyone… ever again!"
Francesca bridled but said nothing further.
"And while we are talking about the police, people do like the police. They just don't like it when they are the ones who are being policed." She lifted her glass, still managing to point her forefinger in her mother's direction. "And there is a difference." She turned her attention back to the photographs, seeking inspiration.
"… is that okay? I mean, your father is happy to."
Tamara looked up, realising she had been momentarily lost in thought. "Um… yes, I don't see why not."
"Great!" Francesca said, smiling broadly. "Your father will be so pleased. I am, too, obviously but I've been so worried about mentioning it to you."
Her attention was now focussed, unsure of what she'd just agreed to.
"Sorry, Mum. What were you saying?"
"Oh, don't worry, Tammy," Francesca placed her hand on the back of Tamara's. "It won't be for long."
"What… won't be for long?"
"We'll be out of your hair as soon as we find a place. Although, the estate agents back home weren't optimistic about a quick sale…" she inclined her head slightly, "unless we slash the price but we want what it's worth, plus a little more what with prices being as they are in your neck of the woods."
"You're… selling your house in Bristol?"
"Of course. We couldn't afford a place here if we didn't. Not a nice place, anyway. The agents around here have told us there's been an influx of people vacating London this past year and the demand has far outstripped supply, so it might be a bit of a wait."
"Um…"
Francesca patted her hand. "As I say, we'll be out from under your feet in no time. Two to three months. No more than six."
"Six?"
"Hopefully less. That's still okay, isn't it?"
Tamara knew she was frowning and forced herself to lighten her expression, much to her mother's relief. "Yes… yes, of course it is."
"Good. Thank you. I was so worried. The removal men will be bringing some boxes across next week—"
"Removal men?"
"Yes, your father's been supervising them packing up this past week. That's one reason he's so tired. A little is going into storage until we find our own place, but in the meantime, we'll have the rest of it come here."
"Here?" Tamara whispered, looking around and envisaging stacks of storage boxes in every inch of spare space.
"Well, we can't put our antique furniture or my ceramics in storage, can we? It will be a mess by the time they bring it across."
"Yes, a mess. Right."
"I'm so pleased you don't mind, Tammy." Francesca stood up, leaned in to kiss her head, hesitated and withdrew, instead rubbing her back gently as she moved away. Tamara felt like she'd just walked into a bear trap and wasn't likely to get free any time soon. "I've put the delivery details in a note on the fridge for you. I'm afraid your father and I will be out house-hunting, but I'm sure you can be here to see them bring everything in, can't you?"
Tamara looked at the fridge, seeing a sticky note with some writing on. It gave her a thought and she hurriedly flipped through the photos in her hand, stopping at one in particular. Putting the others down, she stared at it, her anxieties about her parents moving in forgotten.
"Tammy? You will be here, won't you?"
Tamara slapped the photograph with her free hand, spinning in her chair to look at her mother, waiting at the threshold expectantly.
"Mum, you are a certifiable genius!"
Francesca smiled awkwardly, fingering her necklace. "I–I… if you say so."
Tamara stood up, quickly gathering her papers together and stuffing them back into her bag. She picked up her wine glass, then thought better of finishing it because she had to drive. Approaching her mother, she put an affectionate hand on her upper arm, leaning in and kissing her cheek. Francesca flinched. After all, she wasn't used to sharing physical contact with her and it caught her off guard. Tamara looked her in the eye, taking her mobile from her pocket and dialling Tom's number.
"Genius!" she said again, raising an expressive hand and stabbing it in the air in front of her mother before hurrying to the front door.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tamara approached the front door, unsure of how to announce her presence, bearing in mind it was now past midnight. She needn't have worried, the external light came on and the door opened, Tom swiftly stepping out to meet her. He smiled and gently pulled the door closed behind him.
"I'm sorry, Tom. I know it's late."
"That's okay. Your call got me thinking."
"Did I wake anyone?" Tamara said, looking guilty.
"Alice and I were still up. Saffy is dead to the world now but she has only just gone off."
Tamara looked puzzled. "Why is she up so late?"
"She hasn't seen a lot of me this week. She flat out refused to go to sleep until she'd seen me, and seeing as it's the weekend, Alice said she could wait up. Not that I think she had a lot of say in the matter. You know what Saffy can be like."
Tamara nodded. "Yep, do you think she gets her stubbornness from you or her mother?"
"Well, seeing as she's not biologically mine, it must be her mother!" Tom said as they reached his car. He unlocked it. Tamara pointed to her own. "Yes, I know, but you've been drinking and I haven't."
"Fair enough. Although, I feel obliged to say, I've barely had half a glass."
"Still," he said, opening the door. "Are you sure about this?"
"Yes… and no," she said, frowning and got in.
The drive didn't take long. The roads were empty at this time of night and when Tom turned onto the lane leading up to Billy Moy's house, the thick cloud cover and lack of light pollution in the absence of streetlights saw them picking their way through the darkness with only the headlights to illuminate the way.
Passing Billy Moy's cabin, they continued on the lane. The car bounced and lurched as the quality of the unadopted road deteriorated further. Tom glanced across at Tamara, half expecting her to comment on his inability to pick a less bumpy route, but she was deep in thought. He wondered how confident she was in her theory.
They came upon the house, the last residence on the lane and shrouded in darkness. He looked across at Tamara and she smiled, pointing to the vehicle parked out front.
"Well, that's new."
Tom looked at the car. It was a BMW, less than two years old judging by the plate. There was no sign of the battered old Mondeo they'd seen previously. Getting out, they walked up to the front door, their steps sounding twice as loud as they crunched the gravel underfoot in the dead of night, passing the BMW. It was immaculately presented.
Tamara lifted the cast iron knocker, rapping it against the door three times in quick succession. Unsurprisingly, they didn't get a response. Tom drew his coat around him, feeling the chill of the night air. Tamara repeated the knocking and this time a light flickered on in a window overhead. The window creaked open and a face appeared, leaning out.
"Do you know what time it is?"
Tamara stepped back and looked up at him, brandishing her warrant card. "Yes, Mr Bartlett, we do. Can you come down and open the door please."
"Oh… it's you," he said, looking back inside. He appeared to say something but it didn't carry to them below. He looked back down at Tamara and then
Tom. "I'll be right down."
Several minutes later, a reticent Gary Bartlett, Billy Moy's acquaintance and neighbour, opened the door, reluctantly beckoning them inside. At the foot of the stairs his wife, Jenny, waited for them, nervously toying with the hem of a casual jumper she'd thrown over her pyjamas.
"W–Why are you out here so late?" she asked Tamara.
"I think you already know, Mrs Bartlett."
She looked at Tamara and then Tom, shaking her head.
Tamara smiled. "Okay, you can keep it up for a little bit longer. That's fine."
"What are you talking about, I don't understand," Gary said, his brow creased.
Tamara looked him in the eye. "Well, I'm sure it will become clear soon enough." She took a photograph out of the folder she held in her hand, passing it to Gary. He looked at it, squinting to see the detail in the lack of light provided from a single bulb above them in the hallway. It was an enlarged photograph of the fridge in Billy Moy's house. He looked at it, his eyes darting up to Tamara's. He looked puzzled.
"You expected Billy here, at your home, on the Friday, didn't you? When he failed to show, the two of you," Tamara looked at Jenny, "called in at his place the next day and found him dead."
"Yes, that's right." Gary looked at his wife. She was wide-eyed and fearful. "We've told you this already—"
"Except it wasn't Saturday, was it Mr Bartlett?" Tamara stepped in and put the point of her finger on one of the slips of paper stuck to the fridge with a magnet. "G & J's, Thurs," Tamara read aloud. Gary stared at the photo, his lips moving but no sound emanated from his mouth. "You were expecting Billy a day earlier. Your story is very credible, because it all happened exactly as you said it did except for one thing," Gary looked at her, his chest visibly heaving now, "… and that is that it all happened twenty-four hours earlier than you said it did."
Gary shook his head. "N–No, that's not what happened at all."
Jenny Bartlett drew a sharp intake of breath and sank down onto the second from bottom tread of the stairs.
"Where is it, Gary?" Tom asked. "Where's all the money?" He gestured towards the front door, as if they could all see through it to the driveway. "That's a nice car you have parked out there. A significant upgrade on your old Mondeo."
Gary shot Tom a look, not of denial but one of panic. Then he looked at his wife, slowly shaking her head and staring at the floor.
"But… you don't understand—"
"Gary… it's over. I told you not to…"
"Quiet, Jen," he hissed, making ready to argue with his wife, but she wasn't interested and remained looking at the floor of the hall.
Gary chewed on his lower lip, his eyes moving between Tom and Tamara. He dipped his head in silent acknowledgment.
Leading them along the narrow hallway, Gary stopped short of the kitchen, opening the door to the cellar head. He pulled a light cord and the stairwell lit up. He gestured down and Tom indicated for him to lead. Tamara waited with Jenny as the two men descended. At the foot of the stairs, Gary pulled another cord and they were bathed in the light of a solitary, naked bulb. Gary moved to one wall, lined with storage racking, and lifted a plastic crate from the middle shelf, setting it down on the floor at his feet.
Kneeling down and releasing the clasps holding the lid on, Gary took a deep breath and removed it. Tom peered over him. Inside the crate were bundles of used notes, all tied with elastic bands. He looked up at Tom, imploring him with his eyes.
"It was… just there, on the kitchen table. Billy was… he was dead. I checked, honestly I did. He was cold to the touch. But this, this was right there."
"And rather than call us, you thought you should help yourselves?" Tom said. "With friends like you—"
"But Billy doesn't have anyone… I mean, we weren't doing anyone any harm, were we? And we did call you the next day. It's like your colleague said, we did everything we said, only a day later."
Tom eyed the crate. There must be thousands of pounds stacked inside.
"And you mean to tell me all of this was on view in the kitchen?"
"Well… no, not all of it. There was an old shoe box with about a grand in it."
"And where did you find the rest?"
Gary looked sheepish. "Billy had it stashed in boxes in his wardrobe… I don't know why.”
"So you took the extra day to search his place for any more cash he had hidden, while his body lay in the kitchen?"
"Hey!" Bartlett said, standing up and finding some courage despite sweat forming on his brow. "I didn't kill him. I swear, I didn't."
Tom grasped him by the shoulder, turning him around and drawing his hands behind his back.
"Consider yourself under arrest, Mr Bartlett."
He yelped as Tom tightened the handcuffs. "You don't understand," he said quietly as Tom led him back to the stairs.
Tom shut the door to the second patrol car. Gary and Jenny were both arrested and being transported in separate vehicles back to the station. Gary stared straight ahead as the car pulled away, a reserved expression on his face. Jenny had been tearful from the moment the realisation struck her that she was going to the police station, borderline hysterical.
Tom came to stand next to Tamara. She smiled at him.
"You were right," he said, "and I can see them as opportunistic thieves, unable to turn down the temptation. What I don't see is either of them being cold-hearted killers."
"They're not killers," Tamara said. "And I never thought they were. But it all makes sense to me now."
"Well, please can you make sense of it for me?"
Tamara shook her head, smiling. "You know, it's been staring us straight in the face all along. It's so obvious." Tom sighed, irritated. "Come on. Let's get going. We have one more call to make tonight."
Chapter Thirty
Mary Bloom opened the door to them, bleary-eyed and initially irritated until she realised who it was. The irritation in her expression moved to concern as she opened the door further, seeing the liveried police car and two constables standing behind Tom and Tamara.
"I'm sorry it is so late, Mary, but we really need to speak to Sasha."
Sasha had nowhere else to go once she had been checked over and released from the hospital, agreeing to return to stay with Mary Bloom for the time being. They entered the refuge, Tamara heading upstairs with Mary. Tom waited in the foyer with the police officers. A few minutes later, Tamara descended the stairs with Sasha Kalnina in tow. Together, the small party walked into the kitchen, Mary turning on a light switch and the fluorescent tubes overhead flickered into life. Tamara pulled out a chair, offering it to Sasha who slowly sat down without making any eye contact with them. She placed her hands together in her lap, looking at the table. Tom stood in the background, Mary Bloom by his side.
Tamara took a seat opposite Sasha, lowering her head and almost forcing Sasha to meet her gaze. Reluctantly, she did so. Tamara put a folder down on the table, opening it slowly. She put a photograph down in front of her. It was a picture they'd received from Interpol of Aleksandrs Balodis. Sasha lifted her head and looked at it, her expression saddened. Tamara placed another picture alongside it. Sasha turned her face away, clamping her eyes shut.
The second photograph was of Balodis when he was found on Hunstanton beach.
"Did you know about it before or after?" Tamara asked.
Sasha took a breath, then looked at Tamara. Her lips parted slightly.
"Because I don't think you knew what was going to happen to Aleksandrs. If you had, then you would have done anything you could to stop it."
Sasha held her gaze, unflinching.
"But as it is, he did it without telling you, didn't he?"
"Who?" Sasha asked.
"The man who loved you… killed the man you loved," Tamara said, picking up another photograph and placing it in front of her in a very purposeful, deliberate manner. Sasha stared at the picture of Billy Moy lying on the floor, the handle of a kitchen knife protruding fro
m his chest. She sat still, motionless, displaying no reaction, staring at the picture. Tamara tapped the picture. "This is an image that would shock even the most hardened of hearts… but you've seen this before, haven't you Sasha?"
She lifted her gaze from the photo, meeting Tamara's eye with a defiant look, one far from the vulnerable, fragile victim that had been on display for the last few days.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Oh, I think you do, Sasha. What was the plan? Befriend a lonely man over the internet… help him to fall hopelessly in love with you and have him bring you to the UK? What did you promise him in return?"
Sasha shook her head.
"Oh, come on, Sasha. We're women of the world, we know how it works. Men like to have all the power, the influence… to rescue a woman and provide a better life is a fantasy for most men. Top experience the gratitude, the hero worship. I'll give it to you, you're a wonderful actor. You certainly had me fooled."
Sasha glared at Tamara and for the first time demonstrated a steely edge that sat below the visible veneer of fragility.
"Billy must have been incredibly excited to have finally been able to free you from your supposed bonds of slavery. What was Balodis asking for? A thousand a month for your services or was he suggesting a one-off payment to enable Billy to free who he thought was the love of his life? Only he wasn't, was he? You cooked for him, cleaned for him and took care of everything he desired… leaving him at the mercy of his infatuation with you." Tamara sat forward, resting her elbows on the table, hands together and making a tent with her fingers. "What was your price? What was Billy supposed to pay for your freedom that night? But Billy wasn't going to pay—"
"Shut up!"
"He would have gladly paid, wouldn't he? But he didn't have any money. Those huge sums that came through the house from time to time weren't his. They were payments for the drugs that Rory McInally grew on Billy's property. It wasn't Billy's money to give, but you weren't to know that. Not you, and not Aleksandrs. So how much did Aleksandrs ask for? Five thousand? Ten? More?"
To Die For: A chilling British detective crime thriller (The Hidden Norfolk Murder Mystery Series Book 9) Page 24
