by Jane Isaac
The central heating wrapped around her in the hallway, a warm embrace, smothering the buzz of the inquiries with a blanket of fatigue. Beth slipped off her jacket and hung it on the hatstand. Mawsley was a modern village, less than twenty years old, carved out of the midst of the Northamptonshire countryside. There were no flagstone-tiled hallways, no wonky walls or beamed ceilings. But the houses and cottages were built sympathetically in the old style, arranged into closes and lanes, some of them using local sandstone, and the insides were designed to be comfortable and welcoming.
When she reached the kitchen, Myrtle was meowing loudly. The grains of cat biscuit rattled against the china as Beth filled her bowl. She stroked the cat’s head, flicked the switch on the kettle, leaned back against the side and waited for the water to boil. A quick cup of tea and she’d sink into bed. Her eyelids drooped. She felt the warmth of sleep reach for her, when the door knocker sounded.
Beth scratched the back of her neck. The last thing she needed was visitors. She wandered into the hallway and was taken aback to see Sergeant Nick Geary’s tall sporty frame through the frosted glass in her front door. The familiarity of his stance induced a pang. A few months ago, he’d visited her house regularly. So regularly he’d had his own key.
She pulled herself together, opened the door, unspeaking.
Nick looked as tired and weary as she felt. He raked a hand through his dark hair. ‘Are you going to let me in or what?’ His thick Northern Irish accent rolled down the hallway.
‘Has something happened on the case?’
She moved aside as he crossed her threshold for the first time in weeks. ‘We’ve located Vicki Ryan. She’s staying at her boyfriend’s flat in town. I wondered…’ He hesitated, cleared his throat. ‘Only, I left some clothes here. I just wondered if I could pick them up, get changed here, to save me driving another hour’s round journey before I get out to do the interview.’
It never ceased to amaze her why he chose to live in Oundle, a small market town on the northern tip of the county, almost the furthest point from their base at headquarters, especially with the demanding hours the homicide team required. She nodded and closed the door behind him. She’d seen his dark suits and coloured shirts, brushed past them several times, hanging over the front of the wardrobe in the back bedroom. But she’d never brought herself to return them to him; the gesture seemed so final.
‘Of course. Why don’t you take a shower too? There are clean towels in the bathroom.’ She cringed at her lame attempt to point upstairs. He knew exactly where her bathroom was. Like he knew exactly where her bedroom was.
‘Are you saying I smell?’ He widened his eyes, made a play of lifting an arm, sniffing his armpits. They both laughed as he took to the stairs.
‘I’m making tea. Have you got time for one?’ she shouted up after him.
‘Sure.’
Within minutes, Nick was back down, dressed in a black suit and a purple shirt. He looked more like he was ready for a night out on the town than going to interview a witness. A rush of her musky shower gel accompanied him as he entered the kitchen. Her breath hitched.
‘Any more news?’ Beth asked as she passed him a steaming mug. It had been over a month since their breakup and while they’d found a path through the initial awkwardness at work, it was strange to have him standing in her kitchen again. Moving the conversation back to the case felt safe, comfortable.
He thanked her for the tea, leaned up against the side and crossed one foot over the other. ‘Lots of calls coming in from the appeal this morning. Nothing that looks meaty though. Locating the car is our top priority. That and interviewing Vicki Ryan.’ He took his phone out of his pocket and ran a thumb across the screen. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’
‘What is it?’
‘The new inspector that was supposed to be joining us today isn’t coming. Freeman’s tearing his hair out. Everyone’s out on inquiries and he’s barely got enough bodies to cover the phones.’ He blew out a long breath. ‘I’ll be interviewing Vicki Ryan on my own then.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
Nick glanced at her, then at the clock on the wall. It was nearly seven-thirty. ‘No. You’ve had a long night.’
‘So have you.’
The prospect of a new lead crushed her earlier weariness. ‘Another hour won’t make any difference. Give me five minutes to shower and change.’ She disappeared upstairs before he could argue.
10
Beth raised her eyes as they cruised past Sharman Villas, an eighteenth-century red-brick former shoe factory close to the centre of Northampton town. Its decadent interior had been refurbished recently and transformed into stylish apartments for upcoming professionals.
‘Miss Ryan’s doing all right for herself for a nineteen-year-old,’ she said.
Nick drove on, past the nose-to-tail cars parked kerbside, and squeezed into a small gap. It was 7.55 a.m. A keypad graced the wall beside the entrance. Beth pressed the button for number 212, the address they’d been given for Vicki Ryan’s boyfriend, and glanced around. The factory frontage, with its long, latticed windows, stretched down the road, fifty yards or so she guessed, and was flanked by ancient terraces on either side. Another row of terraces, with doors that opened onto the street, stood opposite.
When there was no answer from the keypad, she pressed again. ‘How long has she been living here?’
‘We’re not sure exactly. Her parents are away in Italy, it took us a while to get hold of them, but they said she moved out a couple of months ago. She went to a friend’s house first. They directed us here.’
‘Yes?’ The voice was male and breathless.
‘DC Beth Chamberlain and DS Nick Geary from Northants Police,’ Beth said. ‘We’re looking for Vicki Ryan. Is she with you?’
The line went quiet. A couple of seconds later, a female voice, laced with a strong south London accent answered. ‘It’s Vicki. What do you want?’
‘We need to speak with you.’ Muffled chatter sounded in the background. Beth tilted her head but couldn’t make out the conversation.
‘We need to speak with you,’ Beth repeated. ‘In person.’ She caught a sigh in the background. More muffled chatter. Finally, the door clicked and they entered.
The interior of Sharman Villas was much like the frontage. Raw red-brick walls lined a large foyer with a stairway in the centre and corridors leading off in different directions. A glass chandelier hung from the ceiling. Their shoes clicked the quarry tiles as they followed the signs and made their way to the apartment on the ground floor.
The door to number 212 opened as they approached. Although Beth had never met Vicki Ryan, she’d seen enough of the photos plastered across the news sites to know they’d got the right girl. She was striking, with sharp cheekbones and dark features. Her mane of black hair was currently tied up in a top knot and she wore a trouser suit, the white shirt beneath hanging loose.
Vicki stood at the entrance. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Can we come in?’ Nick said. He stepped forward as he spoke, indicating it wasn’t a question. They’d had enough messing about already.
When Vicky moved aside they caught sight of another figure behind her, the source of the male voice on the intercom. The man was dressed in a dark suit. Gold cufflinks peeped from his cuffs. Beth introduced them both again.
He scrutinized their warrant cards. ‘What’s all this about?’ he asked. ‘We’re getting ready for work.’
Nick looked across at him. ‘Which is?’
‘Branson’s Estate Agent on Bridge Street.’
‘You work there together?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you are?’
‘Marcus Crossland.’ He jutted his chin out as he spoke and placed a protective arm around Vicki’s shoulder. Beth surveyed his dark quiffed hair and trimmed goatee beard. He must have been at least ten years older than Vicki.
‘This won’t take long,’ Beth said with a kind smile. ‘Is the
re somewhere we can sit down?’
His face relaxed at her tone. He ushered them into an open-plan room with a seating area at one end, a dining table and chairs at the other, and a kitchenette that looked like it was never used in the corner. An arched window ran from floor to ceiling and was draped with a white voile curtain, giving the place a light and airy feel.
Beth waited for them to sit before she spoke again. ‘Stuart Ingram was involved in an incident last night in Rothwell, on the other side of the county. He was pronounced dead at the scene.’
Vicki glanced at Marcus, wide-eyed. Her jaw dropped.
He pulled her close before he spoke. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. But I don’t see what it has to do with us.’
‘Can you tell us when you last saw Stuart Ingram?’ Beth asked Vicki.
‘She hasn’t seen him since last year,’ Marcus replied.
‘I asked Vicki,’ Beth said. She caught the woman’s eye. ‘I need to know specifically.’
‘He visited my parents’ house last October. Asked me to drop the harassment allegations. But you already know that. I came to the station and made a statement.’
‘Had he been in contact with you after that date? Messaged, or texted you? Perhaps recently.’
‘No.’
‘What about his wife, or his friends?’
‘I’ve had nothing to do with Stuart Ingram since last October.’ She buried her eyes in the floor. It was a moment before she looked up. ‘Is that it? Only I need to get ready, put on my makeup. I’ll be late, otherwise.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ Beth wanted to speak with the young woman alone and the only opportunity in this flat appeared to be her bedroom.
Vicki shrugged and padded across to a door in the corner.
Beth followed her into a spacious room that even the oversized bed didn’t fill. Floor-to-ceiling fitted cupboards and wardrobes lined the walls.
She pointed at an easy chair in the corner. ‘May I sit down?’
‘If you want.’ Vicki crossed to a mirrored dressing table, sat on a stool, dotted her cheeks with spots of foundation and sponged them across the contours of her face.
‘Are you still in contact with anyone who you worked with on Mr Ingram’s team?’ Beth asked.
‘No.’
‘So, you haven’t seen or heard from him, or anyone connected to him, since last October?’
‘No, I already said that, didn’t I?’ Vicki paused and looked at Beth in the reflection in the mirror, then lifted a brush and started sweeping blusher across her cheekbones.
Beth changed the subject. ‘How long have you two been together?’ She gave a head tilt towards the living area.
Vicki’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but her face was still taut. She gave the blusher brush another quick sweep. ‘About eight months. We met when I joined Branson’s. I moved in here about six weeks ago.’
‘Did Marcus know Stuart Ingram?’
She gave an irritable shake of the head. ‘No. He knew of him, Stuart’s branch is only up the road from ours. He might have met him, once or twice in passing, but he didn’t know him personally. Why would he?’
‘Mr Ingram was hit by a car. It didn’t stop.’
‘And you think it was me?’
‘We’re not accusing anyone, but you did have a grievance with him. We need to know where you were between the hours of 8 p.m. and 12 a.m.’
‘I was here all evening.’
‘Was there anyone else with you?’
‘Marcus.’ She stroked mascara across her lashes and applied a generous coating of pink lipstick.
‘No one else?’
Vicki rubbed her lips together before she spoke. ‘No. Does that matter?’
Beth ignored the question. ‘Has anyone close to you spoken of Stuart recently?’
Vicki looked down and examined her nails. ‘Everyone’s talking about him. At work, around the dinner table. He’s hot news with the trial coming up.’ She swallowed. ‘But it’s got nothing to do with me. I’ve put all that behind me.’
A phone rang in the lounge. Nick called through the door and waited to be given leave to enter. ‘We need to go,’ he said to Beth.
Beth turned to Vicki. She wanted to question her further about the allegations she’d made last year and why she’d dropped them, but she’d have to leave that to her colleagues now. ‘Thank you for your time. We’ll arrange for you to come down to the station to make a statement. But if you think of anything else in the meantime, give us a call.’ She handed over her card.
They were out of the building by the time she fell in step with a hurrying Nick. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘They’ve found the Jaguar burned out in a country lane.’
‘Where?’
‘Merry Tom Lane. Just outside town.’
‘I know Merry Tom. I’ll come with you.’
He climbed into the car. ‘Not this time. I’m going out there to get everything organised, and then I’ll be heading home for some shut-eye myself. I’ll drop you back first. You need to rest.’ He looked across at her. ‘And that’s an order.’
11
Gina looked out of the lightly misted window as the car slowed at the traffic lights. A man with a briefcase checked his watch and dashed past. A woman stood at the side of the pavement with a phone pressed to her ear. A mother tugged at the hand of a young child in school uniform while battling with a stroller. The people of Northamptonshire were starting their day.
Her mind was a fug. After nearly two hours of questioning, she’d been placed in a cell to rest. Rest. That was a great euphemism. How could anyone rest in there? The smell of cheap bleach had cloyed at her nostrils; the bare lightbulb bore into her. And the mattress was thinner than a summer duvet.
Time crept past, until, astonishingly, she was bailed pending further inquiries. What did that mean? Had they found Stuart’s car? She’d asked for more details, but no one was able to provide any answers.
Relief spread through her at the sight of the empty pavements as the police officer steered the car into Hay Close. The local press hadn’t arrived yet. Their presence had waned recently, while the case was awaiting trial but, as the news of Stuart’s murder spread, they’d gather in their hordes again, lingering outside like a bad smell. At least she could make it inside without the threat of a camera lens following her. But she wasn’t spared the curtain twitches from houses nearby. It was opening night at the opera and she was the main event.
‘I’ll take you in and stay with you until a family liaison officer arrives,’ the officer said.
Gina didn’t argue, unfolding herself from the car and walking slowly and resolutely down the driveway. News of Stuart’s murder had clearly reached her neighbours. She resisted the temptation to cover her face, an action that would send a chain of whispers down the street, fuelling further discussion about whether or not she might be guilty of killing her husband. She could ignore most of the intrusion; she’d borne so much of it over the last twelve months. But what really cut her, what sliced her to the quick, were the stares from number forty-eight: her neighbour and closest friend, Isla. The one person who’d listened and helped her work through the maelstrom of emotions that had washed through her since the charge. The only friend she’d been able to knock up and ask to take Oscar in the middle of the night. Today, Isla didn’t nod or wave. Their eyes met briefly as Gina walked down her driveway.
The house was screamingly quiet in Oscar’s absence and smelt like a pharmacy, the fresh aroma of the forensic investigators’ chemicals all too familiar.
Gina took her time to remove her coat, place it in the hallway cupboard, kick off her shoes and replace them with her cream mule slippers. All habits she’d usually do on autopilot, yet today she indulged the warmth and comfort of her surroundings. The soft pile of the carpet sponged beneath her feet. Later, she would contact a locksmith to change the locks. With the disappearance of the car and the missing keys, she needed to take precautions. But, for now, all
was quiet.
Leaving the officer to wander into the kitchen, she moved into the cloakroom, turned on the tap and splashed palmfuls of water over her face. This past year she’d walked a tightrope. Believe the allegations. Don’t believe the allegations. Ignore the hatred and ill-feeling. Stumbling through life, forcing herself to get up in the mornings, shower, dress, put one foot in front of the other. Keeping it together to such an extent that she couldn’t feel anything anymore, just an all-encompassing numbness.
‘A show of strength,’ their barrister called it. A practised art. Don’t look confident, but at the same time, avoid fidgeting in your seat, or picking at the skin around your fingernails, both annoying habits she’d subconsciously adopted. ‘The court isn’t about emotion,’ he’d continued. ‘It’s about the appearance of fact. And you are the trump card in your husband’s pack right now. What wife would stand by her husband, at the risk of losing contact with her friends, her family, her grandchildren, unless she was absolutely convinced that he was innocent of this heinous crime? We portray a united front, put on a show to convince the jury there can be no doubt of his innocence.’
Gina looked up into the mirror, water droplets plopping off the end of her chin. She’d practised. Adjusting her expression, changing her tone. Maintaining the calm veneer to mask the screaming pain that threatened to push her natural reactions off course. Her reflection was flat, impassive. The pain had strengthened, tearing at her insides. Only now, she had no idea how to react. No idea how to convince the officer sitting in her kitchen that she wasn’t guilty of killing her husband.
Her throat constricted. As the trial approached, her moods had fluctuated; she’d internalised the anguish for so long it unwittingly came out in snide comments and bickering remarks. A part of her knew she was instigating a row, but she was unable to stop herself. She might have stayed with Stuart, been the public face of his wife, but behind the scenes she’d belittled his reading choices, laughed at the films he watched, criticised everything he did, every little detail, to make him pay. In years gone by, he would have come back with a sarcastic witty quip, disregarded her comments. But recently he’d needed her support more than ever, both in and out of court. Because he had no one else.
