by J. S. Spicer
“What about the staff who worked there? Did you get on with them?”
She snorted in disgust. “Bunch of arseholes who thought they were better than me.”
“You didn’t like them then?”
He watched her face, which was teeming with emotions; anger, disdain, defensiveness, and still that confusion. He kept his own expression neutral.
“Well?”
The arms were crossed again and she shook her head. “They were stuck up.”
“You must have talked to them though?”
She let out a heavy sigh and her gaze drifted back to the wall again, but she was rattled now. He waited her out.
“Sometimes.”
“You get friendly with any of them?”
“No.”
She’d reverted to one word answers; time to switch tactics. He rifled through the file again, this time with a genuine purpose. He extracted the photograph he wanted, turned it round and slid it across the table.
“Remember her?”
“Yes, I suppose. Claire or Cathy or something.”
“Carol.”
“Yeah, that was it, Carol. What about her?”
Travers looked into Gemma’s eyes. The newspaper hadn’t printed a picture of Carol Bishop, just listed her name and age, but if Gemma had been fleecing the woman for information about her jewels this vagueness had to be an act.
Travers leant forward, keeping his eyes glued to her face. “Aubrey Davis murdered her.”
Gemma stared back at him for a second, her face paling beneath the fluorescent lights. She dropped her eyes to the photo, taking in the image of Carol Bishop. When she looked up again the colour returned to her cheeks in a furious flurry.
“Bullshit! Aubrey never killed anyone.”
“Really?”
She glared at him with pure hatred. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Why would Aubrey want to kill her?”
“I’ll ask him when I find him.”
“Good luck with that. He’s probably long gone.”
Max hoped that wasn’t true; this case was beginning to feel like sand between his fingers, trickling away from him no matter how hard he tried to hold on.
He re-focused Gemma on the photograph. “You befriended this woman, am I right? Had cosy little chats? That’s how you found out about the jewellery.”
The confusion was back. Travers took a moment to breathe and observe, letting instinct take over. She honestly didn’t seem to know what he was talking about.
“What jewellery?”
More sand was trickling away from him. Gemma had worked with the victim. There was no way that was a coincidence, but she seemed genuine.
He tapped the picture of Carol Bishop. “Gemma, you do know who this woman is, don’t you?” The papers may not have published a photo of Carol, but her name and that of her husband were all over the news.
“I already told you. She was one of the biddies at the home.”
He locked eyes with her. “Gemma, her name was Carol Bishop.”
There it was; shock. She didn’t bother trying to regain her composure this time, just stared at him for the longest time.
“Gemma, this is very important so think hard. Did Aubrey ever meet Carol? Did he ever visit you at the care home?”
She looked miserable now, hopeless. All of the bluster and arrogance had evaporated, leaving her deflated.
“Maybe once.” Her voice was barely above a whisper and tears sprang to her eyes. “He was released about two weeks before I finished my stint there. He came by to pick me up after work.”
“Was Carol there?”
Her brow puckered. “I think so, but he didn’t speak to her as far as I know. I had my coat on before he arrived, couldn’t wait to get out of the bloody place.”
CHAPTER FIFTY TWO
Green Meadows Care Home was tucked beyond the suburbs of Blackbridge, sitting in shady grounds, a proud old sprawl that had started life as a stately home for some long-forgotten lord. From the outside it still oozed grandeur with its columned entrances and finely carved stonework. Its new identity wouldn’t be immediately apparent were it not for the regularly placed, neat square signs which informed and directed visitors as they cruised down the long driveway.
The exterior though was a façade, a trick to lull you with its calmness and dignity. Stepping inside the first thing that hit Max Travers was the smell, not strong but enduring, an acrid undercurrent that followed him everywhere for the rest of the day. Enough of the original interior of the house remained to look sad and lost amongst modernity. Delicate cornices rubbed shoulders with utilitarian, wipe free painted walls, and above the stark and sterile lobby ornate railings climbed away up the stairs. He had to wait a while before anyone noticed he was there. He pressed the little bell next to the sticker which said ‘ring for attention’ several times. Finally a short woman in a white coat hurried down the tiled hallway in squeaky shoes.
He had another wait sitting in a soulless waiting room before he could speak with Carol Bishop’s supervisor. The air was heavy with the quiet of the place. It was hard to visualise the volatile, brash Gemma Collins walking those halls. She must have hated every second she was trapped amongst those disinfectant-laced rooms; forced to comply with the hush of the place, the slower pace of patient decline.
Finally he was joined by Brenda, a rail-thin woman with a cloud of wispy hair and deep husky voice. She’d liberally applied her perfume that day, perhaps every day, either to combat the sterile air she had to work within, or else to mask the smell of cigarettes. Travers guessed a twenty a day plus habit judging by the leathery skin and yellow fingertips.
At first she was wary, glancing frequently at a slender gold watch on her wrist and shuffling about. The subject of a murdered colleague was either fascinating or horrifying, depending on who you talked to. This lady wasn’t comfortable contemplating the fate that had befallen her former colleague, or perhaps she was just made nervous by the presence of a police officer. He eased in by starting with Gemma Collins, who Brenda vividly remembered and was happy to talk about.
Over a cup of strong tea she filled him in on Gemma’s time at Green Meadows. He let her run on at first, but other than her disapproval of Gemma’s swearing, tattoos and fashion choices there were no great revelations. Once she’d relaxed a bit he started to drill down to the important things.
“Carol Bishop was working here during that time I believe. Did she interact much with Gemma Collins?”
Brenda’s face puckered at the mention of her former colleague, but her tongue was looser now. “Poor Carol! Such a gentle soul. It’s awful what happened to her.”
Travers nodded his agreement but said nothing, waiting for her to answer the question.
“They spoke of course. We all tried with that girl you know. I mean, there are far, far worse places she could have ended up. She ought to have been grateful, but she didn’t appreciate our efforts to help her.”
Travers could picture the scene; Gemma bristling at being told what to do by Brenda. Despite what this respectable old lady said about trying to help Gemma she couldn’t hide her disdain.
“And Carol?”
“Well, Carol was always very kind, very patient. She always made an effort. She’d always say good morning and good evening to that girl, though she usually just got a grunt or hard stare in return. I remember saying once she shouldn’t waste her time, but Carol kept trying to engage her in conversation. Even asking about her convict boyfriend.”
“Gemma told Carol about Aubrey Davis?”
Brenda nodded and gripped her tea mug tighter. “She was bragging, can you believe. Like she was proud that he’d been locked up. I think she was trying to intimidate us, telling us he’d be out soon. As if we’d be afraid of Aubrey Davis!”
Brenda seemed to find the notion genuinely laughable. Travers let her throaty chuckle fade away before he leapt on what she’d said.
“Brenda, you talk as if you know
him, Aubrey Davis?”
“Yes of course, we all do here. Aubrey’s a regular visitor, or at least he was before he went to prison.”
Max wasn’t often lost for words but for a second or two he was left open mouthed in dumb surprise. “What do you mean, he’s a regular visitor?”
“He comes to see his mother. I assumed you knew.”
How had they missed that? Travers tried to regroup his thoughts. He’d come here to prove Gemma was a connection between Aubrey Davis and Carol Bishop. Now he had another, stronger connection. Davis’ own mother was at Green Meadows.
“How long has she been a resident here, Aubrey’s mother?”
“Oh, she’s been here for years. Part of the furniture now.”
“I’d like to speak to her.”
Brenda smiled sympathetically. “You’re very welcome to, Detective, but you won’t get an ounce of sense out her I’m afraid. Thelma Davis is still going strong, physically that is, but her mind is all at sea.”
Travers tried to hide his disappointment.
“So, I suppose that explains why Gemma Collins chose to do her community service here.”
Brenda nodded at this but also pulled a face. “It was during Aubrey’s last stint inside. My guess is it was his idea. He doted on his mother you see. And he knew about Green Meadows links with the community service programme. I think he asked her to opt for this assignment so she could keep an eye on his mother whilst he was locked up. But she never seemed happy to be here, and I could probably count the number of times she checked in on old Thelma on one hand.”
“So, Carol Bishop would have known Aubrey Davis too?”
“No, I doubt that.”
“But, if she worked here and his mother’s been a resident for years…”
“Yes, but Carol started working here after Aubrey’s last conviction. She only met him recently.”
“You saw them talking together?”
“Only once.” Brenda leaned in. Max noticed her teeth were nicotine stained like her fingers. “They were out on the car park. It was the end of Carol’s shift. Normally she didn’t hang around, didn’t like to keep her husband waiting at home. But this night she was chatting to Aubrey Davis, outside in the dark, for quite some time.”
Travers noted the conspiratorial tone and raised eyebrows. He also noted that for Brenda to have known Carol and Davis were chatting for a while that meant she had to be spying on them for quite a while too.
“Any idea what it was about?”
“No, but Carol was having problems at home, so, who knows what she was up to.”
“She told you she was having problems with her husband?”
“Well, no, she didn’t talk about it, but I could tell. Carol wasn’t very good at hiding things.”
“Things? What sort of things?”
Again she leaned towards him and lowered her voice. “Bruises, for a start.”
Despite Brenda’s assertion that he’d get no sense out of Thelma Davis, Travers paid her a visit anyway. He had to check her out for himself. At this point he couldn’t afford to pass up any potential source of information. He spent ten minutes with the mother of the man he was hunting. She was diminutive and very cheerful. She patted his cheek twice whilst he was there, and prattled on about half a dozen different people and events, all of which he suspected were from about half a century before. She was sweet but seemed to have a barely passing awareness of the present. Aubrey Davis could have confessed his every act to his mother and she’d take it to the grave with her.
By the time Max left the cloying interior of Green Meadows he felt he had a better picture of Carol Bishop. Brenda’s knack for nosiness and gossip had been an eye-opener. In the time Carol had worked at the care home she’d shown up for work on at least a dozen occasions with marks or bruises that she’d tried to explain away with stories of falls or bumping into things. A couple of times she’d been absent for a week or more; again Brenda didn’t believe the excuses of the flu or a stomach upset.
Travers had dialled Carrie before he reached his car. “I want access to Carol Bishop’s medical files, and double check our own records too for any reports of domestic disturbances at the Bishop residence.”
“You think hubby was beating her?”
“Yes, Carrie, I think hubby was.”
CHAPTER FIFTY THREE
As night fell so did the temperature. She’d tried for hours to prise the nails from the floor, gouging the small teaspoon into the wood around them and even trying to free them with her bare fingers. All she had to show for her efforts was a bent spoon and now her stiff, cold fingers were bloody and shot with pain. He’d hammered the long nails in too far and too well, leaving nothing above floor level with which she could gain purchase. With proper tools it would have been different, but she had only her shredded fingers and a pitiful piece of cutlery to work with. She was shaking again. There was nothing she could do in the darkness so she shifted, trying vainly to find a more comfortable position on the hard floor. The boards creaked beneath her and with that sound her own stupidity crashed in on her. She shouldn’t have bothered with the nails. She should have tried to prise up the floorboards. She had wasted hours and now couldn’t see anything except shifting shadows.
She put the spoon back in her pocket and curled up on the floor, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them, making herself as small as possible. Despite fear, cold and pain, she eventually slept. Her body and mind needed to switch off, shut down, and hopefully recover. She cried for a while at first, but before long she was too exhausted even for tears. As the fuzzy weight of sleep pushed down on her she heard rain outside. Erratic at first, flung about by the night breezes. Then it settled into a steady wet tapping at the window, its song accompanied by the persistent backdrop of dripping guttering. She thought of her small flat; her warm, cosy flat with soft lamplight and plump cushions and the steady chug of its ancient heating system. She tried to imagine that’s where she was, curled beneath a fluffy duvet in her own bed. This same rain would be rapping at her bedroom window too, and the windows of her parents’ house, and at so many other friendly windows. The rain became a friend, lulling her to sleep and reminding her of home.
When she woke it was still dark. The rain had stopped, just the drip, drip of the gutter remained to mark its passing. Jennifer lay where she was, hugging herself for warmth but finding none. She thought about all that had happened. She cursed her own cowardice. She should have fought him. She should have done anything and everything to get away. Then she remembered his fury, anger so hot and deep she didn’t think he could control it. She remembered Hugh Bishop; she’d seen the same wild fury then too. She moved her hand until she felt the small hard object in her bathrobe pocket. That silly little spoon was her only chance at survival. If she didn’t get away, she was certain, he would kill her. One day his anger would bubble over and that would be it for Jennifer Kim. She curled tighter into a ball, rubbing her arms and legs to get the blood moving. She watched the dark patch that she knew to be the boarded up window, waiting for those first grey fingers of dawn to reach in.
CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR
Aubrey Davis spent an uncomfortable night in the back of his van. He wanted food but didn’t want to risk being caught, or, more importantly, missing another opportunity to follow Myers. He felt sick with hunger, his mouth dry, and the stab wound on his shoulder throbbed incessantly. He’d parked his van just around the corner. He could only just see Myers’ house but he would easily spot any vehicle coming out of the alley that ran behind it.
The road wasn’t busy but there was the usual hum of life. One house still had workmen coming and going; a radio blared and every now and then the shrill screech of a power tool broke through the peaceful suburban neighbourhood. Aubrey waited patiently in the back of his van. There was a narrow gap in the panelling that separated the back of the van from the cab. Through that gap and the back window he could watch, unseen. As the day wore on he made himself as co
mfortable as possible, watching the comings and goings in the street outside.
He managed to position himself in such a way that his shoulder didn’t give him too much trouble, maximum comfort without impeding his view. Then he draped his coat over him. He felt invisible, cocooned, but also very, very tired.
Aubrey snapped awake, jolted from sleep by voices. The first couple of seconds were fuzzy and confused. Then the memory of where he was and what he was doing rushed back into his consciousness. He was in his van, tucked behind the front seats. His injured shoulder still ached but the burning seemed less now. His neck protested as he straightened up. Half a dozen teenagers were walking by; they were the ones who’d woken him with their shrill banter. Evening had fallen. The road was a patchwork of light from streetlamps and curtained windows; in between were long strips of shadow. He watched the teenagers as they passed through shade and light, sipping from beer cans and oblivious to all but their own chatter. He shouldn’t have fallen asleep. He could see a downstairs light on in the Myers house but had no idea if Joseph was still there.
He clambered out and returned to the front seat, feeling less conspicuous under cover of darkness. He cracked the driver’s side window to let in some fresh air to revive him and chase away the last grogginess of sleep. He should check the garage again to make sure the Volvo was still there, but there was no rush. If Myers had already gone out there was nothing he could do about it, so he just sat there, watching the street, which was quiet and empty after the passage of the teenagers.
Sitting alone in the dark his thoughts turned to Gemma. She’d been a constant in his life for several years now. There were times when he’d thought her more trouble than she was worth. She was a real drama queen; demanding, loud-mouthed, with a knack for stirring up trouble. A part of Aubrey always thought he’d move on naturally one day, that Gemma was just his girl of the moment; convenient until someone better came along. Now though he missed her. He was honest enough with himself to realise seeing her with another man had been a smack in the face. Finding Freddie Rushton pawing greedily at her so soon after Aubrey’s departure had hurt. He knew he couldn’t blame Gemma, not really. How often had he left her, whether intentionally or not? There was only so much loyalty you could realistically expect from any one person; especially when that person was as flighty and attention-seeking as Gemma Collins.
