by J. S. Spicer
He felt sorry for her.
He wanted to help her.
She tried to be brave, but to him she was like a slender sapling trying to hold up against a howling gale. Her life with her husband had left her fragile and stripped bare of joy. She’d told him they’d been married for five years. Not very long in some respects, but five years of terror would feel like a lifetime. He’d tried to get her to talk about it once, but she’d clammed up so tight he’d feared she’d change her mind about the job. He hadn’t mentioned it again. Her life, her choices.
Aubrey checked the fridge first. If the Bishops had been here recently and were planning to return then they would have stocked their little larder with some essentials.
There was nothing. It was empty and spotless. Maybe they were out on a shopping run right at that moment.
The living area gave up nothing so Aubrey moved on to the bedroom. As his hand closed over the door handle he thought he heard something outside; a crunch of gravel, footsteps perhaps. He froze and listened, but hearing no more he turned the handle and pushed open the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Max Travers cracked the window and pushed down on the accelerator. He hadn’t been sleeping too well and the slim stream of cool, drizzly air helped revive him. He clicked on the radio, fiddled around until he found a station playing eighties tunes. He turned up the volume and sped up.
He was on the coast road now, refreshingly devoid of traffic. The scenery was empty, mostly, just the odd farm or cottage, and occasional clusters of sheep, resolutely tugging at the tired grass.
The sea, when he caught glimpses of it, was sulky grey like the overcast sky.
As he drove his mind kept going back to the Bank Manager. What was the man thinking? When his branch was robbed he must have known that it was his wife’s safety deposit box. Why deceive the police? The only explanation was that he had something to hide, and that something had to be connected to the crime. Could it be that after all that had happened Mr and Mrs Bishop had just tootled off to their caravan for the weekend? It seemed ludicrous.
Travers hoped to find them there, hoped this God awful trek across the country wasn’t for nothing. He didn’t like to think about what his next move would be if the Bishops weren’t there, so, he opted for positive thinking.
Hugh Bishop thought he was being clever. Perhaps he didn’t expect the police to make the connection to his wife too quickly. He doubtless thought his little caravan at the coast was a safe bolthole. Somewhere to give him time to make his next move, whatever that was.
Travers let his mind focus on the burglary; they still didn’t know exactly what had been taken. Whatever it was had to be valuable enough to make Hugh Bishop risk his job, his future, his very liberty. Travers still couldn’t grasp why Bishop might go to the trouble of stealing from his own wife, but, that was one of the questions he’d ask him, back at the station.
The site entrance wasn’t inspiring; a painted wooden sign next to a metal gate. The gate was open, propped into the muddy bank. Travers turned in, slowing outside the little shed that scrappily advertised itself as the site manager’s office. The closed shutters and padlocked door told their own tale. He moved on. There was no clear track as such, just a network of old tyre ruts indicating the more regularly used routes. Travers cruised passed an old blue van, parked off to one side near some bare trees. Again he slowed. The driver wasn’t there.
Caravans splayed out before him. There was no clear pattern or design to the site that he could see, just an attempt to make the most of the space and fit as many vans on there as possible. Max pulled in a few feet ahead of the blue van and got out of his car. The wind tugged at him straightaway, flowing in unimpeded from the sea. He pulled up his collar and stepped amongst the silent caravans.
Number 15 wasn’t hard to find.
It was smallish, not the best on the site, but respectable nevertheless. Like most of the rest it looked uninhabited. The curtains were drawn across the small windows. Travers circled it once, his practised eyes drifting over the scene, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
The door to the Bishops’ caravan was reached by a small metal step. As he put one foot on it he reached out to test the door handle. He assumed it would be locked but tried anyway, remembering the back door at the house. Even so, it came as a surprise when the handle turned easily at his touch and the door swung open obligingly.
Surprise turned to shock when a figure suddenly filled the doorway. He had little time to assess the man in front of him; large, black, shaved head. The thing Travers noticed most were the eyes; wide and wild.
Travers did his best to block the exit but a fist lashed out, striking with startling speed. Suddenly he was flat on his back, ears ringing from a blow to the side of the head. Aside from the ringing all he heard was the sound of rapidly retreating footsteps.
Cradling his thumping head, Max gingerly sat up and looked around. His assailant was nowhere to be seen. Still massaging his sore head he struggled to his feet. Who was that? Travers had come here hoping to find Hugh or Carol Bishop.
Once he felt steady enough he clambered into the caravan.
Travers was warier now. What if there were others in here?
It was always possible the guy was just a squatter, taking advantage of an empty place; it might not be connected to the bank job at all.
The interior was dimmed by the curtains but he could see well enough to know the small living area was empty. There were two doors to his right; bathroom and bedroom he’d guess.
Cautiously he reached out to the first door with his left hand, his right raised in front of him, ready to fend off any more surprises. The bathroom was tiny. It was also empty.
Travers felt relief but was still careful as he reached for the second door. As his hand grasped the handle he realised the door wasn’t completely closed, not quite flush with the frame. Gently he eased it open. The bedroom was even darker than the rest of the caravan; shadowy shapes outlined by the meagre grey light seeping through the curtained window. The wardrobes and dressing table were fitted in around the double bed; the bed that took up most of the floor area.
It was the bed that drew Max Travers’ eyes.
It was what was on the bed that captivated his full attention.
He stood there, just staring. For some time he was unable to move, unable to look away. Time was frozen. The breath seemed to have stalled in his windpipe. Max felt his heart beating, a little faster than normal.
Then he turned and fled.
It took a while for help to arrive. The camp site was out of the way; in the middle of nowhere.
In February it was mostly deserted. The perfect place for murder.
The wait gave Travers time to calm down and get his head straight. He focussed on the fleeing man first, rather than the body. A quick check confirmed his suspicion. The blue van he’d parked beside had gone. What’s more, his tyres had been slashed, preventing pursuit.
Back at the caravan he sat on the metal doorstep and made a few notes. He had a description of the man, his vehicle, and he recalled at least part of the number plate.
The local police arrived first, soon followed by the forensic team and coroner. As the sun sank low in the sky there was a continuous stream of official people in and out of the little caravan.
Last to arrive was Travers’ boss, Chief Inspector Heritage.
He was quick to remind Travers’ this investigation had taken a more serious turn. He strode around for only a few minutes; took it all in. Then he was leaving.
As he walked away Heritage threw Max some helpful advice. ‘No fuck-ups’.
The Chief was a man of few words.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
He shouldn’t have delayed. His concern, curiosity, whatever it was, had put him at risk. Carol was dead; murdered. He was sorry about that. She’d been a nice lady and had been good to him. She’d offered him a way out of his crappy life, and he’d helped her in return, but now things
were spinning out of control.
At least he knew now why she hadn’t turned up that night; she couldn’t. There was no longer any dilemma about what to do with the stuff he’d stolen from the bank. With Carol dead, it was all his.
Time to take off.
Aubrey put his foot down, speeding along the country lanes. Farmland flew by on either side. Herds of cattle blurred into Jersey smears at his vision’s edge. Diminutive villages rushed up fast, then were gone again in the blink of an eye.
He didn’t really see any of it. His head was full of the image of the body. She’d been stabbed, he could tell that much; brutally and repeatedly.
He wondered who’d done it, and why? The husband?
But it didn’t really matter. All that mattered now was getting as far away as possible, as fast as possible.
Aubrey’s heart hammered against his ribs; the fear tapping rapidly inside. The sight of her body had been unsettling enough. But then there was also the guy at the caravan site. Aubrey knew a policeman when he saw one, and this policeman had seen him too. Aubrey had a record. His van, registered in his own name, was parked nearby.
Once they found a body in that caravan he’d be the one they’d come looking for, he was sure of it.
He made it home in record time. The flat was in darkness. Good, Gemma must still be at her mother’s. That would make things easier.
As fast as he could Aubrey stuffed clothes and toiletries into his backpack. He didn’t have much. Stints in and out of prison had taught him to travel light. The final thing he grabbed was the fake passport he kept hidden under the kitchen sink. He thought he’d been so smart arranging that, even though it had been costly. Now he wished he hadn’t waited. He should have used it sooner. He could have been miles away by now. Why did he hang around?
Aubrey was almost at the front door when he heard the key turn in the lock.
Shit! Gemma. Just what he needed.
Gemma was a loudmouth and a drunk, but she wasn’t an idiot. In a glance she saw what was going on; the bulging backpack gave him away.
He tried to head off the inevitable tirade. “It’s just temporary,” he told her, trying to sound sincere, comforting, even.
“What the fuck?”
“Gemma, I’ll be back soon. OK?”
Her handbag dropped to the floor, her hands found their way to her bony hips, where they clung on, elbows jutting out defiantly.
“Aubrey Davis, what the fuck have you done? You promised me, you swore, that you were finished with this stuff.”
“I am, Gemma. It’s not what you think.”
“Really!” She held her ground, blocking his exit. “So then I won’t have to worry about getting a visit from the police.”
Aubrey thought about the guy at the caravan site; the car parked near his van. Maybe he shouldn’t have slashed the tyres.
“Gem, I swear. I was just helping someone out. Things just got out of hand.”
“Christ, Aubrey. What have you done?”
He didn’t have time for this. “I’ll call you, OK?”
She tried to stop him but he easily shunted her to one side. Gemma was skinny but feisty; volatile was the word. He half expected to feel the dig of fingernails in his cheek but once she saw he was serious she stopped fighting to keep him there. Their eyes met briefly before he was out of the door. The look of disappointment he saw there was harder to bear than all her screaming and lashing out would have been. Hell, he didn’t even know if he’d ever see her again.
Aubrey gave himself a mental shake, looked up and down the empty street, then headed for his van.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
He was putting off going home; avoiding the house. For a while he hung around an out-of-town shopping complex, somewhere to get coffee and a bite to eat, but the noise and crowds and artificial lights gave him a headache. So he bought a travel guide from a busy bookshop then headed for the exit. Much of the afternoon was spent in the relative seclusion of sprawling parkland a few miles from where he lived. A brisk stroll cleared his head, but soon the cold sent him hurrying back to the warmth of the car. There he settled down in his Volvo to read about European cities and remote getaways, and ponder where he would go to start his new life.
As the sun lowered in the eastern sky Hugh Bishop focussed on the problem at hand. He’d dragged his feet with the police, drawn it out as much as possible, but finally had to give them the information on the safety deposit box. It wouldn’t take them long to make the connection. He’d deliberately left Carol’s old address on file; he didn’t want any of the staff getting nosy, but unless the Detective he’d spoken to was an idiot, he’d soon be knocking on Bishop’s door. And he hadn’t struck him as at all idiotic.
It felt like his whole life was unravelling. It was Carol’s fault, she’d forced his hand. Now at least he understood why he couldn’t find the key. The bitch had taken it from his briefcase. She was the one responsible for this whole mess. She was behind the burglary. But there was no way she’d acted alone. The police believed it was a professional job; someone had gained access without causing any damage, disabled the alarm and been in and out without leaving a trace of evidence behind. Skilled as they might be, they’d still needed the key for the safety deposit box. Carol’s key. His key. She had to have stolen it and passed it to her accomplice.
She thought she’d been so clever, scheming behind his back, but she’d underestimated him. Not only had she paid the ultimate price for her betrayal, he was also now wise to how she’d done it.
The new girl; Jennifer Kim. He wasn’t fooled by the act. Somehow Carol had put her up to it, and not only her. The man he’d seen talking with her outside the sandwich shop, he was in on it too.
Hugh hated the deceit, the lies, and more than anything he hated being made a fool of. He heard enough gossip around the office to know the new girl had played the ‘all by myself’ card; new to the area, no friends living nearby, no boyfriend. All that innocence, and loneliness, all that vulnerability and cheerful helpfulness, it was designed to bring down walls, make her trustworthy, make her liked. They’d all fallen for it, even Hugh; he was big enough to admit it.
But no more.
It was a safe bet the guy outside the sandwich shop was her accomplice. She probably fed him all her inside knowledge so he could perpetrate the actual break in. What Carol had intended for the contents of the box he couldn’t be sure, but with Carol gone he’d be damned if he was going to let those two lowlifes steal from him.
He was angry, but he was still prudent. The man might be a problem, but not if Hugh had the upper hand. Not if was clever. He needed leverage.
And now he had Jennifer Kim’s home address, easily picked out of the personnel files.
As the last rays of the day leached away he turned the key in the ignition and drove slowly away from the park.
By the time he arrived at his destination, darkness had fallen completely. He parked the Volvo a little way down the street. Best not to pull up right outside her flat.
Doubts started to bombard him; so much could go wrong. But second guessing himself wasn’t going to get his property back. So, Hugh Bishop got out of the car and strolled down the street.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
She was tired, but it was a happy tired. Content, that was the word.
Chrissie had come over and they’d spent the afternoon strolling round the shops. They’d spent too much; they always did when they went shopping together. Jennifer had bought a new top, a little slutty she had to admit, a pair of boots, and new underwear. She hadn’t intended to tell Chrissie about the Detective and their dinner date, mostly because she’d heard nothing from him since and feared that would be it. But in the lingerie department she found herself drawn more to lace than cotton. Well, just in case!
Chrissie was younger than Jennifer, and louder and more confident. She was less sensitive on the whole, but when it came to Jennifer’s love life she was like a bloodhound, sniffing out the slightest
whiff of romance. She’d started quizzing Jennifer about men even before she gave the game away with the underwear.
Once her sister had prised the truth out of her, Jennifer opened up, telling all, positively gushing. She hadn’t realised how much she liked Max Travers, not until she heard herself describing him so dreamily. In the end she was glad she’d told Chrissie, it felt good to share after all.
Chrissie’s news was bleaker. It was the same old thing with her; a problem boyfriend, treating her badly, untrustworthy. She always picked the worst men. The only consolation was this time she seemed to have come to this realisation herself before things got too bad.
When Jennifer had dropped her sister at the station she’d told her she hoped everything would work out, whilst privately praying that Chrissie would dump him.
Back home at her cosy flat she pulled the curtains over the darkened windows, lit a lamp and then scanned the contents of her fridge as she pondered dinner. She’d bought some fresh vegetables and chicken earlier that day. The intention had been a healthy stir fry, now though she didn’t think that would quite hit the mark. Instead she rummaged through the kitchen drawer until she found the takeaway menus; Chow mein sounded good. In fact, a nice soak in the bath followed by dinner in front of some Saturday night TV was just what was needed.
She let the water run over her fingers, feeling the temperature rise. Once the flow was hot enough she pushed the plug into place. A splash of honeysuckle bubble bath soon had the surface frothing. As the bubbles rose up the side of the bathtub she scrolled through the contacts on her phone and selected the restaurant she wanted.
Perched on the closed toilet lid she gave her order, running one finger down the takeaway menu as she picked out her favourites.
“Half an hour? That’s perfect!”
Just enough time to soak her cares away before dinner.
