by Carol Wyer
Scott crosses his arms. ‘Not until you tell me you really loved me and all this wasn’t just a bit of fun.’
Miles tugs again at his shirt and wipes a hand across his forehead. His voice is less assertive now. ‘Scott, please,’ he says. He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. His head drops and he crumples to the floor. Scott is paralysed, unable to help. Miles stares up with wide eyes filled with pain and horror. His mouth opens again, the lips forming Scott’s name, but no sound emerges and he falls back.
Time becomes liquid and Scott can’t move; his mind is blank. By the time he drops to his knees to help, it is too late. Miles Ashbrook is dead.
Scott didn’t pause for breath. ‘I begged him to reconsider. He refused. I threatened to blab about our relationship and he reminded me that I had more to lose than him, that I should consider my family and the effect it would have on them to discover I was having an affair with another man. I lost my temper. I leant against the sauna door and wouldn’t let him leave until he confessed he still loved me, and would do what he could to keep me on.’
Scott’s voice on the phone went silent, during which time she heard the sound of an engine again. What was that? A lorry? Anna came into the room. Robyn signalled to her and mouthed, ‘Trace this call.’ Anna hustled into action.
‘He begged me to let him out. It was too hot for him, especially fully dressed. I behaved like a petulant child and refused. Then he clutched his chest and keeled over. He died instantly. I didn’t know what to do. I panicked.’
‘Scott, it was an accident. You had nothing to worry about.’
‘Don’t you see? It was my fault. I trapped him in the sauna. My mind went crazy. After it happened, I didn’t want anyone to find out about our affair, and so I tried to make it seem as if he had taken a sauna. No one other than Miles knew about my routine of going into the spa on a Wednesday. The spa is out of bounds for employees. Miles turned a blind eye to it,’ he said. There was silence for a moment and Robyn thought he had hung up. Then she heard him again. ‘I stripped the clothes from his body and left him in the sauna. I sat in the changing room for an hour trying to work out how to make it appear like a genuine accident, and it came to me. I knew the CCTV camera would focus on the shower outside the sauna for a few minutes, so I left my clothes in the changing room, carried Miles’s clothes to the lounger, and stood under the shower. Miles and me look a bit alike, especially when I flatten my hair.’ He stopped for a second. ‘We were similar – the same height and size. I wanted to make sure no one spotted any difference, though, so I wore the pants.’
‘You wore the Union Jack boxers deliberately.’
‘They were a joke present from Miles. We bought them in London on our last trip and I kept them in my locker at the gym. I didn’t want Alex to find them. I figured anyone looking would see the Union Jack boxers rather than the man wearing them. I kept my back to the CCTV.’
‘It was very convincing.’ Not a lorry – a tractor. Scott was somewhere rural.
The sound of gentle sobbing, then, ‘I had to dress him in them afterwards. It was awful – the most dreadful thing I’ve ever done.’
‘Scott, you can’t be held responsible for his death. You didn’t murder him. Either tell me where you are or come into the station. We can resolve this.’
‘I’ve lost everything. Alex knows about Miles now. I couldn’t sleep, eat or anything. I was in such a state, I told her about our affair. She doesn’t know any more than that. I can’t face her knowing the real truth.’
‘I’m worried you’re in danger, Scott. There is someone out there who wishes you harm. Please, let us help.’
‘I feel better now you know about Miles. I’m sorry, I can’t tell you where I am. I have a few more issues I need to address.’
‘Scott, don’t do anything drastic. Your marriage to Alex may be over, but you still have a little boy who needs his daddy. Don’t deny him that. He needs you now and he’ll need you as he grows up. This week, another little boy had his mother taken from him. Think about George.’
There was more sobbing from the other end and then the phone went dead. Robyn looked across at Anna, who shook her head in apology. They still had no idea where Scott was hiding.
Fifty-One
Adrian Bishton had never got used to his title. He was plain old Adrian to his family and friends, and now he was fast approaching seventy he felt even less like a lord. However, one thing he enjoyed about being Lord Bishton was the annual hunt ball. Some of his dearest friends attended, and it was a great opportunity to catch up with those he hadn’t seen for a while.
Bromley Hall was a far cry from his home in Thailand, where he was simply a self-made millionaire who lived in a fairly large villa with a view of the sea. Bromley Hall had been bequeathed to him; he and Kate had left their terraced home in London to take it on. It had been a labour of love at the start, with both of them keen to transform it into a prestigious location for the elite and well-to-do. Kate had exquisite taste, and it had been enjoyable travelling to Italy and France to source all the fabrics and furnishings. And once they had opened the Hall, it had been hugely entertaining to mingle with rock stars and celebrities, who’d rushed to stay there from all over the globe. After the accident in 2012, both he and Kate had lost heart in the place. The Hall lost its popularity almost overnight. It was shut for several months, and it cost them dearly to avoid being sued for millions and to keep the whole nasty affair out of the major newspapers.
He wasn’t proud of his part in it, but Bromley Hall had been a major investment of time, effort and money. Every penny he had earned had been pumped into it. He couldn’t allow the business to fail because of Harriet Worth’s accident. Adrian had thrown any savings they had at the lawyers and at Harriet’s grieving husband, to make the problem go away. Alan Worth had accepted the money and then insisted they close the pool and spa area. They had almost been ruined. Transforming the place into a large hotel spa and selling it on had been the answer. The Bishtons had kept their house in the grounds of the Hall, which they would leave to their family, along with a now very healthy financial legacy.
In part, he was looking forward to seeing the old place. It was five months since he had last been in the UK. It was a pity Kate wasn’t with him. He wasn’t used to travelling without his wife. She’d insisted on remaining in Thailand, where the sun shone in November and she could wear flip-flops and swimsuits instead of thermal vests, thick woollen jumpers and boots. She detested the British weather at the best of times and abhorred winter. No matter what he had said, she had flatly refused to join him, and instead packed his warmest clothes, pecked him on the cheek and told him to enjoy himself. As he waited for his luggage to come off the carousel at Heathrow airport, he checked his phone and listened to his voicemails. He was vaguely amused. Some woman claiming to be a DI Carter was advising not to travel to the UK. Who the heck was this woman? She’d left a number and a request for him to call her. His case arrived and he trundled through customs with all the other arrivals. A stern-faced officer called him to one side and asked what was in his suitcase. By the time Lord Bishton had left the airport and managed to get soaked in a heavy downpour waiting for his car to arrive, he was not in the best of moods and the phone message had been forgotten.
Fifty-Two
Robyn stood with her back to the window, arms folded, and sighed. ‘No idea, just that Scott is hiding out in a rural location, and we both know how much countryside there is in Staffordshire. We’re going to have to hope he calls again or hands himself in.’
Matt Higham shook his head in despair. ‘Every time we get close to something significant, it escapes our grasp.’ He studied the whiteboard. ‘I hope the killer is thwarted too and can’t find Scott. He’s surely one of the potential victims on the Leopard’s list.’ He huffed in dismay. ‘A West Highland terrier called Alfie and a silver Fiat 500. It’s not much to go on, is it?’
‘I agree. I’ve never felt so frustrated or anxious about a case, a
nd the killer is on some ego trip knowing the press have named him the Lichfield Leopard.’
David Marker interrupted the conversation. ‘There’s been a call about a Fiat 500 with a sticker in the back windscreen. Someone claims his next-door neighbour has such a car.’
She picked up her hat from the desk. ‘Give me the neighbour’s address. I’ll question him.’
‘It’s not a him, guv. It’s a her – Stacey Turner.’
‘Okay, I’ll check it out. I’m going stir-crazy here.’
Delphinium Avenue may have been christened with a pretty, horticultural name, but there was nothing on this street that bore any resemblance to any larkspur Robyn had ever seen. The front paved drives were filled with clutter, cars and various broken bits of machinery. Each was a veritable scrapyard.
The semi-detached houses were dingy – built in the late sixties, they lacked paint and regular maintenance. It was as if the entire street had decided to decline into a shabby state. She pulled up outside number twelve, a house like all the others on the street, with nothing to distinguish it from its neighbours other than the number twelve stuck on the front door. She detected a figure at the window of the house next door and assumed it was the neighbour who had called the station. The curtain fell back and the figure disappeared from view, no doubt to watch the proceedings from some other less obvious vantage point.
It was seven fifteen and the street stood in darkness, save for a few pools of light. Two children were lurking under a lamp-post that gave off an orange glow, turning their faces an eerie colour. They stared at her with vacant expressions as she got out of the car. They were about the same age as Amélie, though she doubted Amélie would be allowed outside like them. Which reminded her, she really ought to phone and explain why she had not yet arranged their day out. It was becoming increasingly unlikely she would find time to spend a day with Davies’s daughter.
The Fiat 500 was parked on the drive. Robyn noted the large anti-theft clamp on the steering wheel. She rang the bell and, getting no response, rapped on the door loudly. A volley of barking came from inside, followed by a shout, and once the dog became quiet she heard a bolt being drawn. The door opened a few inches to reveal a vertical slice of a hefty woman wearing a faded pink onesie. Stacey Turner gawked at her, her plain round face devoid of make-up and her hair lank and greasy. She took a moment to register the fact Robyn was a policewoman, and then her pale, insipid eyes took on a look Robyn had seen before – one of distrust.
‘What d’ya want?’ asked Stacey, her voice rough and low.
‘Can I have a few moments to ask a couple of questions about your vehicle?’
‘What about it? It’s paid for. I got it with the insurance money from when my old car got bashed up. Nothin’ wrong with that, is there?’
Robyn shook her head. ‘Nothing at all. I’m trying to locate the driver of a Fiat 500 who was in Kings Bromley on Monday, the twenty-first of November. They might be a witness to a crime.’
‘Never heard of Kings whatever-it-is. It wasn’t me.’ She began to shut the door but Robyn persisted.
‘I have to ask you, Miss Turner, where you were that day?’
The door opened further. Stacey’s outfit did little to disguise the layers of flab. She shook her hand ‘I was here, in bed. I worked nights last week at the pharmaceutical factory near Derby. I pack boxes of supplies. Check with my employer. I got in at six and went to bed, all right? That enough information for you?’
‘Thank you, Miss Turner.’ The dog inside the house howled to be let out. ‘Is that your dog? Is it a West Highland terrier?’
Stacey’s face softened for a moment. ‘It is.’
‘I love Westies. Such nice natures.’
Stacey gave her a suspicious look. ‘Love ’em or not, I have nothing more to say to you.’ The dog howled again. ‘Shut up, Alfie,’ she shouted.
As the door was about to shut, Robyn felt a frisson of excitement at hearing the dog’s name. She pushed against it, preventing it from closing. ‘Miss Turner, I’m going to have make this formal and take you into the station unless you talk to me.’
Stacey hesitated, weighing up her options. Reluctantly, she held the door open. ‘In that case, you’d better come in.’
Fifty-Three
It was too dark to be time to get up. Outside, the hum of the early-morning traffic had begun and he knew he would not be able to sleep. Last night he had been prowling the streets, his glossy coat shining under the lights, his teeth bared ready to chase his prey. He could feel the powerful muscles under his skin. He was invincible. He was the Lichfield Leopard.
He had caught a glimpse of his reflection in a shop window and crouched on his haunches to admire it. He was truly a magnificent creature, smaller than the other big members of the Felidae family – the tiger, lion and jaguar – but the very epitome of stealth. He knew he was the most secretive and elusive of the big cats, and also the shrewdest. The knowledge made him swell with confidence. He stared at his shoulders, upper arms, back and haunches marked with dark spots in a rosette pattern, which acted as camouflage. He was the most furtive of nocturnal predators and would never be caught.
Harriet suddenly materialised beside him. She was wearing his favourite outfit – the pink top she had worn the first day he saw her. She stroked his head and murmured into his ear. His entire body trembled at her touch and he let out a noise – a mixture of a purr and a growl.
‘You have to be more careful, my love,’ she whispered, her hand caressing his spine. ‘You are stealthy, yet you didn’t act quickly enough, and now one of our prey has escaped. It was a mistake that could put you in danger. You must go to ground and hide like the leopard you have become. That way, the hunters will never find you and you will be able to deal with the person who most deserves to suffer.’
‘But I have to capture my prey that fled. I owe it to you.’
She caressed his ear for a moment and regarded him thoughtfully.
‘You have made most of them pay. Dawson was fortunate to escape. If you have time after the next victim, you should seek him again and crush his skull. Now it is important you stick to the plan and prepare for the most important of all the victims. I want you to collect his payment, and then soon, so soon, you and I shall finally be together forever.’
The dream had been a sign that he ought to heed. He dragged on a pair of jeans and prepared his survival bag. He would do as Harriet suggested. He would hide until it was time to make his final kill.
Fifty-Four
Stacey regarded her with icy-grey eyes and sat with her plump arms folded protectively over her chest, revealing a tattoo of a green and blue bird – a swallow in flight, distorted in shape and size – on her forearm.
‘I’m investigating a murder, Miss Turner, and I require your cooperation. I’ll ask you again – where were you on Monday last?’
There was a silence in which only the television could be heard. It was an old episode of an American sitcom, the canned laughter at odds with the sombre room itself. Inside, number twelve was as scruffy as its exterior. Stacey clearly was not house-proud: layers of dust had gathered on the stand supporting the large television screen, the fabric on the chairs was grubby and several stains were evident on the seat cushions. The room was sparsely furnished, with few ornaments and knick-knacks and only one picture – a seaside scene – on the wall. The entire place smacked of neglect and loneliness. A family-sized bag of crisps rested on the settee where Stacey had been sitting and a can of cola was perched on the arm. The dog had been allowed into the room and was sitting on one of the chairs, throwing Robyn baleful glances.
‘I was here like I told you. I work shifts. Some weeks I work days and other nights. I was on nights that week so I got in at about seven a.m., let Alfie out, had some breakfast and went straight to bed. I didn’t get up again until five p.m. and had to go back to work for ten.’ While she was speaking, Stacey’s eyes rested on the television, observing the antics of the characters o
n the screen, semi-oblivious to the presence of the detective sitting opposite. There was something about the way she wouldn’t meet Robyn’s eye that made her suspicious.
‘Do you have a partner or could anyone else have driven your car that day, Miss Turner?’
Stacey’s reaction was immediate and nervous. She brushed imaginary crumbs from her woollen jumper and picked at a hole in it. ‘I don’t have anyone in my life,’ she replied. After a fraction of a second she glanced at a photograph of two children hand in hand with a woman in a sundress and large hat.
‘Miss Turner, you do know I can check up on you. I can go to my car, call the station and have your details brought up on the police computer. If you are hiding anything at all, I’ll know about it.’
The woman continued to pick at the hole, pulling at a loose thread and twisting it round and round into a tiny, tight ball.
‘Is there anybody who has access to your vehicle?’
Stacey shrugged. ‘There might be someone.’
‘I can’t stress how important this is. If you conceal anything that might hinder my investigation I shall have to charge you, and that will have a negative impact on your employment.’
‘What? I could lose my job?’
‘Employers don’t take too kindly to their employees having a criminal record.’
Stacey sat for a while, wrestling with her conscience and staring at the television. Although the laughter was becoming increasingly irritating, Robyn sat quietly, calmly, waiting for Stacey to crack. She eventually did.
‘I lent it to someone that day.’
She felt her heart beat faster. At last she had something significant.
‘I don’t want to get him into trouble.’ Alfie, his head on his paws, eyes half-closed, let out what sounded like a sigh. She took a breath, her words slow and deliberate, as if each sentence were being extracted from her with force. ‘My brother’s car was in for a service and the garage didn’t have any loan cars, so he called me. He had to get to work and asked if he could use mine. He only took it for a few hours and returned it after lunch.
