‘You knew the suspect intimately and told no one… you arranged to meet her without proper back-up, and then the mad bitch goes and swallows poison and dies in our custody!’
He doesn’t give me time to respond. ‘Procedure,’ he says, ‘you know it as well as I do. You put yourself at risk, the whole operation, you withheld information from the team, you took unorthodox measures—’
I nod. I’m tired. ‘I got the result we wanted,’ I say, quietly, ‘George was found safe and she as good as confessed to both murders.’
Woods smiles like I’ve just told him a secret he already knew.
I continue to explain that I knew she would come to meet me. This way, the way I played it, pretty much guaranteed an arrest. I tell him how I used our relationship as a means to capture Rebecca Harper and that while it was a gamble, I felt it was one I had to take. As I’m telling him all of this, I can hear how ridiculous it all sounds, how unbelievable.
I watch Woods, the strange, funny man he is.
‘This was found among the stuff in her lock-up,’ he says, placing a folder onto the desk and nodding at it. ‘She knew who you were, Dan.’
I look down at the table. Scared to open the folder, but I do, tentatively. I pick it up. Look at it. It’s a scrapbook filled with newspaper and internet cuttings of Rachel’s death and the trial. There’s a picture of me, taken when I had given a short statement to the press after Mathers’ sentencing. There’s one of me and Rachel too, an inset photo of us together at a friend’s fortieth birthday party – my arm around her – and one of Rach on her bike, in her leathers, holding her helmet underneath her arm, smiling.
‘She knew for a while.’
Chapter Sixty-Seven
So I became part of Rebecca’s story. A story which she had pre-written and already knew the ending of. She’d been in control the whole time, played me like a guitar. Only Woods wasn’t completely on the money. She hadn’t known all along. My mind keeps drifting back to the night of her arrest in the Greek restaurant, when she’d used my full name. I never recalled telling her it, but she already knew. I google the words ‘Rachel’ ‘motorcycle accident’ and ‘death’. My girl makes the top three: ‘Policeman’s fiancé, 35, killed in motorcycle crash.’ It’s under Touchy’s byline. I blink at the screen.
Rebecca wanted to be caught; and she’d wanted me to catch her once she discovered who I really was. But why? It’s a question that will remain unanswered now, a question she took to the grave with her. Was it like Magnesson said, that Rebecca had completely separate personalities and was literally two different people who she could compartmentalise?
Perhaps she wanted the kind of love that Rachel and I had, and she hoped I would give it to her? I don’t know. Perhaps she had fantasised about leading a normal life, like the one she thought I had, and perhaps she knew she would never get it, but it felt good to pretend. Perhaps she knew deep down that neither of us could ever truly have the lives we both wanted, and she felt a connection with me because of this. I don’t know, but these questions will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Sometimes there is no why.
* * *
I’ve been given six weeks paid ‘leave’ due to personal circumstances, which Woods tells me is enough time for him to ‘clean up the bloody mess I’ve left behind’, and smooth things over with the IPCC. He told me to take a holiday and as part of the deal I must undertake some counselling. I’ve done neither yet, but I am thinking of going to LA, maybe stop off in Cambria, go to where I scattered my girl’s ashes one last time.
I pay Janet Baxter a visit and explain that we caught the woman who killed Nigel. I owe her an explanation; I owe her a full stop. I tell her about Rebecca Harper and give her a little background, and then I finally reveal that this woman had taken her own life and died in police custody, that there will be an inquiry, but that I’m truly sorry there will be no trial as a result. I put my hand on hers as I explain, and it feels warm to touch.
I don’t tell her that I had come to know Rebecca or how. Woods has told me to keep this quiet, he said that no one needs to know. He and I are the only two privy to this information. Davis has been silenced. But she’s a good copper is Lucy Davis, loyal to a tee. Woods is going to do a cover-up job. I’d like to think it’s a decision he made to save my bacon – and reputation – but in reality I think it’s more likely to save his annual golf membership and his face. Still, it’s an unprecedented move on his part. I don’t know if I’m grateful or not.
Janet Baxter is relieved when I tell her about baby George and how close he came to meeting the same grizzly end as her Nigel. Even now, with no one to put behind bars for the crime against her husband, she’s shows nothing but compassion. Without malice, she says she’s glad that Rebecca Harper is dead. ‘Perhaps now we can all try and move on.’
I feel a sadness from Janet Baxter that I recognise in myself, a sort of fait accompli, a weary resignation to her situation – and a life without the man she loves. ‘He was a silly old fool,’ she says, ‘but he was my silly old fool.’
And I have to fight back tears as she says it. She thanks me profusely for ‘all your tireless hard work’ and tells me she knew I would never let her down, she’d always had faith in me to get to the bottom of this and find her husband’s killer. I can barely look in her watery eyes. Before I leave I hug Janet and she reciprocates. She smells of freshly washed clothes, of the expensive stuff. ‘Life goes on,’ she says, ‘that’s what’s so sad.’
‘Things will get better, Janet.’ I reply. It’s the last lie I hope I’ll ever have to tell her.
* * *
After I leave Janet’s place I drive up to the cemetery near Wandsworth where Karen Walker is now resting and I lay flowers on her small headstone. It takes me almost an hour to find it. Just three people turned up for her send-off – myself one of them – and I think of all the people out there, faceless, nameless people like Karen with no family, their tragic lives unwitnessed, their passing unmissed. There’s a picture, a photograph of her cat, Esmerelda, next to a bunch of dead flowers. I think about throwing them away but I don’t. Whoever left them there, I hope they’ll never forget her, just as I won’t.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
I’m listening to a little-known Liverpool band, Shack, in the car as I park up a little way from Craig Mathers’ family home. The album is called ‘HMS Fable’ and it’s a melancholic masterpiece of haunting guitar tunes and acoustic melodies. It reflects my mood perfectly. Rachel loved it, even if she always said it was ‘a touch on the maudlin side, Danny, you miserable sod.’
I know, after everything, that I shouldn’t be here and I’m gambling with myself once again. But I needed to come one final time. It’s getting late now, and the sun has all but disappeared, leaving a blood-red sky full of promise for tomorrow. Dusk is my favourite time of day, even if it does signify the end of something. I used to tell Rach that I found sunsets beautiful, but also sad somehow. I never wanted the day to end when I was with her.
There’s always tomorrow, Danny.
Only there wasn’t.
* * *
Almost an hour passes before I see him; the music has long since stopped playing. I watch him in silence as he parks up with his girlfriend, a young, pretty girl with long brown hair and cute smile. They’re holding hands and laughing and I think I can hear their voices in the distance, but maybe that’s my imagination. She goes back to the car at one point, she’s forgotten something, and he throws his head back in mock exasperation. Just a young, happy couple with their whole lives ahead of them. They disappear behind the front door and I wait, stare at it for a little while and prepare to drive away. But then it opens again. They’re walking in my direction and I feel the first flutters of panic swell within me; I can’t be seen. I promised Woods I’d keep away. I promised myself. As they get closer I can see that the girl is pregnant; she has a small rounded belly protruding from her light summer jacket. Her arm is linked through his as they begi
n to stroll and she rests her head on his shoulder. I try to slide down into my seat but I’m paralyzed and can only stare and watch them, smiling, laughing, touching. Happy.
So happy and so young. In love and pregnant.
They pass me by on the opposite side of the street and I watch in my rear-view mirror as they disappear from view. It takes me a few moments to gather my composure; the violent ache in my chest feels like an open wound debilitating me and my hand subconsciously covers it as though it’s real. I suppose it is really.
The knock on the window startles me, sending a jolt of electricity straight through my aorta. I turn to see him at the window, Craig Mathers, the man who killed Rachel and our child and destroyed my life. Instinctively I’ve already opened it. His face appears much younger up close – clean-shaven, handsome even. A young, handsome man out for an evening stroll with his pregnant girlfriend. We make eye contact but the torrent of adrenaline flooding through my system renders me silent, my throat constricts.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, his eyes directly on mine. ‘Please, I’m truly, truly sorry.’
And then he walks away.
Epilogue
During my visit to the States I took a run out to Cambria to say one final goodbye. The tiny town looked different from the last time I was there, during the scarecrow festival, when they decorate the entire place with crazy straw people. The scarecrows are gone now and it looked much like any other small town you might pass through on Route 66. I throw flowers into the sea from the cliffs of Moonstone Beach where I scattered her ashes. They disappear into the abyss below me, swallowed up by the dancing waves: forever dancing.
* * *
On my return, I clear out Rachel’s things from our apartment. I box up all her shoes that have been sitting in the spare room in neat pairs, her ‘going out’ stilettos and summer sandals, flip-flops, trainers and, of course, the biker boots she used to wear with feminine floral dresses. It was always my favourite look on her, the paradox of salty but sweet, tough but pretty – it’s how I see her when I close my eyes. I put the boots to one side, along with a big silver cocktail ring I bought her in Camden and a few other mementos of hers that I cannot bring myself to give to charity. I know I should have done this a long time ago, my grief counsellor advised it, but the truth is I wasn’t ready to. I’m not sure I’m ready to now either, but I know I must.
I flick through some old photos, snapshots of our life together, holidays and trips we took, days out on the beach, a friend’s wedding where we’re all suited and booted, a selfie she took of us in a hotel room, our heads touching as we peep out beneath the white sheets of a king-sized bed. There aren’t that many really, I wish now I had taken more, so many more… I place them all in a large envelope and put them in the box.
Finally, I go through the condolence cards, a vast wad of them; expressions of sympathy and sadness from everyone whose lives she had touched. I flick through them until I come to the one with the butterfly on the front, it’s wings are a little faded through sun and time. It’s from Touchy and it has Chinese writing on the front.
I reach for my phone.
‘Fiona?’
‘Hey, Dan!’ She sounds pleased to hear from me. ‘How’s tricks?’
‘Believe it or not, Touchy, I’m on holiday, due back in work next week.’
‘You? On holiday? I don’t believe it… you live for that nick Dan, have you missed it?’
‘Not in the slightest,’ I lie. I don’t think she believes me.
‘I was just looking through some of Rachel’s old things,’ I tell her, ‘boxing up a few bits, having a spring clean, you know.’
Touchy tells me that’s a good thing. Her voice is soft and kind.
‘I came across your card,’ I say, ‘the one you sent after Rachel’s death, the one with the butterfly on it.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
I tell Touchy that it was my favourite card and I ask her what the writing on the front means.
She pauses for a moment, thinking, I presume, before she says, ‘Wàn shì kāi tóu nán – All things are difficult before they are easy.’
I smile and invite her out for a drink.
* * *
THE END
* * *
Three couples each receive an exclusive invitation to the fantasy holiday destination of a lifetime…but this is no ordinary holiday. Someone is watching them and when they discover the truth – it will be explosive in more ways than they can ever imagine. Lose yourself in an absolutely gripping read with a jaw-dropping twist. Order Pleasure Island now.
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Detective Dan Riley Series:
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A Letter from Anna-Lou
Dearest Reader,
I am so grateful and humbled that you chose Black Heart as the latest addition to your reading list. This novel was a natural shift in direction for me as a writer, which has been a little nerve-wracking to say the least, so I hope it will be well-received and that you enjoyed reading it as much as I have really loved writing it. Dan Riley’s character literally came out of me compulsively and I could not write him quickly enough.
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Anna-Lou Weatherley New Releases Email
Your comments, feedback and reviews mean everything to me, so I’d be thrilled to know what you thought of Black Heart and if it was everything you hoped it might be. So, if you enjoyed Black Heart it would mean a lot to me if you would take the time to leave a review and let me, and other readers know why. I’m always recommending books to friends and family and vice versa, so if it encourages others to read one of my novels and enjoy the ride then I cannot thank you enough.
Detective Dan Riley will be back very soon with yet another dark, unusual and challenging case that sees him pushed to his psychological limits. Will he manage to break the case before it breaks him, and will he turn a corner in his grief for Rachel and find love again? You’ll just have to wait and see…
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Much love,
Anna-Lou x
Pleasure Island
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Secrets. Scandal. Betrayal. In Paradise, pleasure comes at a dangerously high price…
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Three couples each receive an exclusive invitation to the fantasy holiday destination of a lifetime…
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The host: Martin McKenzie, global billionaire and media mogul. Charismatic, powerful and always gets what he wants.
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The location: A breathtakingly beautiful undiscovered island, nestled in the Aegean Sea. Private, secluded and not quite as it seems.
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The details: Seven days of pure hedonism, five-star luxury tailored to every desire, also includes… secrets, lies, and infidelity.
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As the guests begin to enjoy everything the luxury island has to offer, cracks begin to surface between the three couples. But that is not all. Someone is watching them. When they discover the truth – it will be explosive in more ways than they can ever imagine.
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A jaw-dropping, absorbing and spectacular blockbuster of a novel. THE beach read of the summer you won’t want to be without.
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‘Pleasure Island was simply stunning and has left me with a huge book hangover that will take a considerable amount of time to cure. It has an incredible pace packed full of twists and turns, manipulation and surprises…This is THE Summer read of 2015 go and buy it now.’ Shaz's Book Blog
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Wicked Wives
Black Heart Page 25
