For Better, For Worse

by Jane Isaac

  ‘There’s a connection between Stuart Ingram and Richard Moss somewhere,’ Beth said. ‘We need to find that connection.’

  ‘Okay, leave it with me,’ Freeman said. He sounded weary. ‘We’ll see what we can find on the son. I’ll see you when you get back.’

  The call cut and immediately rang again. It was still on speaker. Nick terminated the call when the number graced the screen. There was no ID.

  Beth turned to face him. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No.’ The accompanying headshake was sheepish.

  ‘Oh, come on, Nick. That’s the third call you’ve ignored in the last couple of hours.’

  He kept his eyes on the road. ‘It’s nothing.’

  21

  Phoebe Carter placed the laundry basket on the bed, sat beside it and stared out of the window. It was a grey Sunday, bleak clouds blocking any sign of sun. Her boys’ voices filtered through the wall from their bedroom next door. They were arguing over their Xbox again.

  She pulled her phone out of her pocket and scrolled through to Mum. Her finger hovered over the button for several seconds. She swallowed, closed her eyes.

  Her father, viewing child-abuse images. How could he? The anger that ripped through Phoebe on the day she was given news of the charge surfaced anew. Her father’s imploring face, beseeching her to believe his innocence, asking her to stand with them. This was the man that raised her; sat her on his knee and read her stories as a toddler; taught her to ride a bike; rolled around the floor in mock combat with her as a child.

  She’d tried to persuade her mother to come home with her that day. Her parents had been married over thirty years and during that time her mother had looked after her father, washed his clothes, organised his social diary, hosted dinner parties; been by his side. But this… this was too much to ask. But to Phoebe’s surprise, Gina had flatly refused, insisting on standing by her husband.

  Her decision inevitably caused conflicts in their relationship. Tiny hairline faults spread and widened over the ensuing days and weeks, like cracks in a windscreen, as her mother refused to back down. They’d always been close, sharing lunches, kids’ assemblies, shopping trips. Her mother was her confidante, her closest friend. The person she ran to when she needed help.

  Jason took over her father’s business, but said they should protect their children. In many ways, he was right. She’d cut both her parents off, although the guilt still tugged at her and the void her mother left behind had been unfillable. And now, thoughts of her mother, all alone in her grief, wrenched at her. She was the only child of an only child. Gina didn’t have anyone else. Even their friends had withdrawn. She should give her a call, check to see how she was. But… a lump burned in her throat. What would she say?

  The boys’ voices hiked up a decibel. Phoebe ignored them, cast her phone aside, opened her jewellery box on the dressing table, retrieved a key and unlocked the chest of drawers. She sifted through Jason’s clothes in the basket and slowly placed them in the drawers. Smalls in the top one. T-shirts beneath. Jumpers next. The bottom drawer contained his work hard drive backup, the reason why the drawers were locked. She blew out a long sigh. The lock had been specially fitted to give him a secure place to keep the backup files away from the office. Why couldn’t he use cloud storage like everyone else?

  Jason was very particular about where everything went, and how his clothes were placed. No rummaging, he would say, it creases everything. Place the new stuff on top. It irked her how he went off to work on a Sunday and left her to cover the chores and the kids. It was bad enough on the long hours he was out during the week, but weekends too, when other families were enjoying their days off together, it didn’t seem fair.

  She sat back on the bed. The boys had quietened now. There was a time when she’d had a job. PA to a banking executive. She’d got up in the mornings, dressed in tailored suits, driven into the office. The hours at the bank were long, sometimes gruelling, but she recalled a sense of satisfaction, of feeling valued. After the boys were born, they both agreed she would give up her job and care for the children. But a part of her longed for those days, contributing to a team, achieving targets, chasing a goal.

  Most of her friends had a cleaner and someone to do the ironing. But Jason said with only him working, their finances wouldn’t stretch that far. Didn’t they still want their holidays in the sun, and their nice cars? They couldn’t have everything. But a cleaner wouldn’t cost that much. And she knew her father paid him a decent basic wage, plus he earned commission. They’d seen a dip in clients after the charge last year, yes, but since her father stepped back and Jason took over, the business was starting to pick up again. She made a note to raise the issue of a cleaner again. They could do the ironing too and put away his damn smalls. She might be raising their children, but she refused to be treated like a skivvy.

  It was about time she had a moment to herself.

  Resolved, she collected the last bundles of Jason’s socks, pulled open the drawer and swore. Blood oozed from a nail broken right into the meat. She sucked at her finger and cursed Jason again. Then jostled with the drawer to close it. It wouldn’t shut properly. Damn! She’d never be able to lock it like that. She rocked the rails gently, loosening it from its tracks until she could lift it out.

  A leather wallet was wedged behind the drawer, preventing it from reaching the end of the rail. She pulled it out and frowned. It was the one the children had bought their father for his birthday. Funny, she’d never seen him use it. It seemed odd to store it there though; Jason was particular about putting things in the right place to the point of annoyance. She stole a glance behind her. All was quiet. She opened the wallet. The main section was empty, apart from a pound coin the children had placed inside, for good luck. She unzipped the side pocket. That was empty too. She was beginning to assume it had slipped down unnoticed when she unfolded it and looked in the back pocket. And gasped.

  Two tiny clear plastic bags were stuffed in there. Sealed at the top. Very familiar little bags.

  He’d introduced her to similar little packets when they were first together. In those heady days of wall-to-wall partying, and early mornings the following day, working all week, partying all weekend, they’d dabbled with cocaine to keep them going.

  But it was an expensive habit they could ill afford, especially when they decided to buy a house and service a mortgage. The crux came when she fell pregnant. They made a pact to give up the drugs, cut down on the wine, clean up their lifestyle. She knew he’d lapsed a few times: once when his mother died, another when his brother went to live abroad. But he’d admitted it to her, they’d talked it through and slowly he’d weaned himself off. Drugs were a fool’s game. They had children now, they had to make sacrifices, set examples.

  The powder skittered in the bottom of the bags as she lifted them out. Anger flared in her chest. No wonder they couldn’t afford a cleaner. Jason was back on the cocaine.

  22

  ‘Craig Moss is on a rig off the Isle of Skye,’ Freeman said.

  He’d called them into his office as soon as they’d arrived back from Newcastle. The rain pitter-pattered on the window, masking the view of the sports field and the red-brick building of Police Headquarters beyond.

  ‘That was quick,’ Nick said.

  ‘It wasn’t too difficult actually. The checks from DWP came back quickly and there were only a few possibilities that fitted the age category. Craig Moss may have been estranged from his father, but he never moved out of the county. He lives in Rushden with his wife and teenage girls.’

  ‘That’s pretty close to Corby. Why haven’t they been in touch? They must have seen it on the local news.’

  ‘We spoke with his wife first. Craig told his family his mother and father died in a car accident when he was a teenager. She had no idea his father was still alive. When the news broke, she didn’t think there was a connection.’

  ‘That’s one hell of a secret to keep when you live fairly clo
se by.’

  ‘I know. They’ve been married for over fifteen years and Craig managed to avoid his father while raising his own family less than twenty-two miles away.’

  ‘What’s he doing on the oil rig?’ Beth asked.

  ‘He works there, comes home on leave. I spoke with him briefly to deliver the news, but the line was poor due to the bad weather. The storms are raging in the north-west. We lost connection. Can’t even get through on the satellite phone. It could be anything up to twenty-four hours before things are restored and we can interview him properly.’

  ‘How was he when you told him the news?’

  ‘He seemed indifferent. Even when I mentioned the nature of his father’s death, he just said they weren’t in contact.’

  ‘At least that rules him out as a potential killer,’ Nick said.

  ‘And leaves us back at square one.’

  Beth looked up at the ceiling, deep in thought. ‘Nothing in this case makes sense,’ she said eventually. ‘There’s no pattern. Both victims were killed differently. They don’t appear to be connected. The only link we have is the notes.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Nick said. ‘Whoever this is, they’ve been clever. Got to know each of their victims intimately. They knew Ingram travelled back from his bowls club on a Thursday evening and where he stopped off for a curry. They also knew that Moss went drinking on a Saturday night in The Lincoln, got bladdered and didn’t lock his door when he got home. And there are no witnesses. The killer is playing games with us.’

  Freeman brushed a hand across his forehead. ‘I think we should do another press appeal for witnesses. Somebody must have seen something.’

  The phone on his desk rang. He picked up the receiver, nodded for them to go. They’d shuffled out of their chairs and were at the door when he placed his hand over the receiver and called out, ‘Beth, can I borrow you for a minute?’

  She returned to the desk, waited for him to finish the call.

  ‘Professional Standards emailed me this morning,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’

  Freeman sat back in his chair and smiled. ‘Don’t look so worried. They’ve completed their investigation, closed your file.’

  Beth let out a long breath. But her relief was short-lived, tempered by a vision that slipped into her mind: her chance meeting with Kyle Thompson last night. He’d sparked the initial investigation and there he was again, making his presence known. His associate, and the man’s liaison with Jason Carter, nudged her. Should she mention it? But she had no evidence to suggest they were engaged in criminal activity. No. Probably best to leave things for now.

  ‘You should get a formal notification eventually, but I wanted to let you know as soon as I heard,’ Freeman said. ‘I’m sure it’s been bothering you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’m glad it’s over.’

  ‘With that in mind, I wondered whether you’d seen the announcement about the sergeant promotion board?’

  It was odd to hear him talking about promotion boards when they were in the middle of a murder investigation. ‘I’ve heard people talking about it in the office,’ she said gingerly.

  ‘Aren’t you interested?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it. Wouldn’t it mean a move?’

  ‘Not necessarily. As you know, Andrea’s already acting up at inspector level, on the accelerated promotion scheme. She’s keen to try a new department. Which means we’ll have a substantive vacancy here. We’d keep you with us if we could. And you could continue with the family liaison role as a sergeant, although you’d have other responsibilities to run alongside, naturally.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She grimaced. ‘What about the PSD investigation? It’s still on file. Won’t that go against me?’

  ‘The very fact that you were still operational suggests to me they weren’t expecting to find anything. I wouldn’t worry, Beth. Lots of cops are investigated internally, it’s part of being in the force these days. As long as you’re clean you have nothing to worry about.’ He fished about on his desk, moving aside files and papers until he laid his hands on a couple of A4 sheets and passed them across. ‘I realise this isn’t great timing. We’ve all got Operation Redwing on our minds. But the deadline for applications is next week and the superintendent wants to see some interest from the team. Think about it. You’re well-liked. Respected. You’d be a good fit.’

  Beth thanked Freeman and made her way out of his office, her mind awash. Even though she’d expected to be cleared, for weeks she’d laboured under the weight of the internal investigation. And promotion? She’d always imagined she might climb the ranks one day and had completed her sergeant’s exams the summer before in readiness, but not quite yet. She turned the corner and recognised Nick’s military stance, a phone fixed to his ear. A wave of tenderness touched her; did he know the PSD file was closed?

  He ended the call when he saw her. ‘You look pleased with yourself,’ he said.

  ‘You could say that.’

  His gaze met hers expectantly, eyes alight. Beth was about to share the news when another voice sounded from the end of the corridor.

  ‘Sergeant, you’re needed.’

  Andrea Leary’s citrusy perfume pervaded the air as she approached them both. ‘Where have you been, Beth?’ she said.

  ‘Up to Newcastle with Nick to interview on the Moss murder. I thought you knew?’ She looked at Nick who passed her an apologetic glance.

  ‘Freeman wanted a FLO involved. Sorry, I meant to mention it,’ he said to Andrea.

  Andrea gave her a hard stare. ‘Ah. Well, there’s a collection of Gina Ingram’s old phone records on your desk for you to work through,’ she said. ‘Briefing’s at four in the conference room. Don’t be late.’ She turned to Nick. ‘I need you in my office, please.’

  23

  The rising wind tossed debris across the road as Beth made her way home later. A storm was brewing; a fitting end to a frustrating day. Apart from a few crank calls, the enhanced CCTV image of Ingram’s killer hadn’t brought up much from the appeal that morning. They were waiting to speak with Craig Moss, but couldn’t do that until the signals were back up on the oil rig which, with the current forecast, wasn’t likely until the following morning at the earliest.

  Beth lowered her window as she drove through Kingsthorpe, an area close to the edge of the town, allowing the bustling wind to blow into her car and feather through her hair. Her briefcase sat on the passenger seat, the promotion papers tucked away safely inside. Freeman surprised her with his comments about promotion and she’d agreed to give it some thought, but right now the murders were swirling in her mind, taking up every inch of space.

  Another statement had been prepared for the press. It was always tricky to decide how much to release in a major investigation. Too much and the public got jittery and panicked. Not enough and it played down the importance, discouraging people from coming forward with information. Conveying the severity of the situation without alarming the residents of Northamptonshire was no mean feat and the pitch needed the right balance. There would be no interview, no chance for questions. A statement would be read out on the late news, saying police believed the two murders were linked, asking all residents to be cautious, and extending another appeal for witnesses. The notes left at both addresses would not be mentioned. Holding back information was a deliberate tactic, particularly when they were still interviewing potential informants and witnesses. It was always possible someone might slip up.

  She reached a fork in the road and at the last minute changed her mind and turned left, taking the Welford Road out of town. It took her off route, but Merry Tom Lane was playing on her mind. Perhaps she should drive down and take a look at the point where Ingram’s car was abandoned.

  The wind picked up as she left the lights of the town behind her and continued on the country lanes. She raised her window. A few minutes later she was trundling down Merry Tom Lane, doing her best to avoid the potholes that would play havoc with the suspension of he
r Mini. It was an odd location to dump a car. Yes, it was isolated, stuck between the villages of Church Brampton and Spratton, a quiet country road, with a couple of farmhouses placed at intervals. As the crow flies, the lane led from the A5199 to the A508, the two direct routes heading out of town, and perhaps it had been used as a through route once. But these days it was blocked by a locked gate halfway down, just past Merry Tom Farm. The farmer’s statement confirmed the chain securing the metal gate was padlocked on Thursday evening, the lock undisturbed. Which meant the killer drove up there, knowing it wasn’t a through route. The only way he could make off without coming back on himself would be by foot or bike down the Brampton Valley Way.

  She cruised around bends that offered a spectacular aspect of the rolling countryside in the daytime, although it was nearly nine o’clock and the darkness and heavy skies blocked out any view. The rising wind brushed the trees and bushes that lined the route, casting gloomy shadows across the road. When she reached the bridge over the River Nene, she pulled over, let down her window and listened to the shallow water trickling across the stones.

  Pale moonlight shimmered across the puddles as Beth climbed out of her Mini and wandered a few yards across the rough ground. During the summer evenings, Merry Tom Lane was frequented by couples who’d drive down to watch the final disc of sun disappear below the horizon, and canoodling teenagers, looking for a quiet place to be together. Now its reputation would forever be tainted as the dumping ground for a murder weapon. This time of year, apart from the farmer’s Land Rover trundling up and down during the daytime, it was mostly deserted.

  Beth wandered up the pathway to the point where the Brampton Valley Way crossed the road. To the left, through a tunnel of trees, led west, towards Market Harborough and ultimately Leicestershire. To the right, the route was more open, leading to Northampton town centre. A yellow forensic marker fluttered across the ground, the only indication of where the car had been dumped, two nights earlier. It was a strange place to dump a vehicle and set it alight. The entrance to Merry Tom Farm was barely two hundred yards up the lane, yet the farmer claimed neither he nor his family noticed the flames licking through the darkness – although it was late, and they did have a high wall circling the perimeter of the farmhouse garden. She presumed the killer had chosen this spot because there was a choice of escape routes, none of which had cameras.