by Tara Lyons
‘Gov, why don’t we just get the four of them in a room together and see what they have to say?’ Rocky suggested.
‘What do you think this is, an episode of Poirot?’ Hamilton said sarcastically, and heard a snigger from Dixon. He wondered if the joke was wasted on the younger three of the team. ‘By tackling them individually, they’re more likely to tell us something they wouldn’t in the company of their friends. Maybe even slip up and confess something they omitted from their original statements.’
Rocky didn’t flush red at Hamilton’s comment. Instead, he smiled with the rest of them and hitched up his shoulder. ‘Okay, I understand. Remember, I’m learning from you every day.’ The twinkle in Rocky’s eye shone as blatantly as his tongue-in-cheek tone.
‘What did the Chief have to say?’ Clarke asked.
‘He thinks the fact Donna Moran’s name was literally dragged from the corpse of her friend gives us some scope to be involved. Like me, he also believes she could be in danger. Possibly even the next victim.’
‘Or she’s the murderer,’ Dixon added, placing her hands on her petite hips. ‘It could be her calling card, informing the authorities she’s thought about this for some time. Wants everyone to know she’s taken revenge.’
‘Revenge for what?’ Rocky asked.
Dixon shrugged. ‘That’s why we need to find her.’
Hamilton mulled the idea over. ‘It’s not the conclusion I came to, only because I saw the size of Warren Speed, and the fact he’d been placed in the Lake and tied up.’
‘Maybe she wasn’t alone.’ Rocky clicked his fingers.
Hamilton continued writing all the possibilities on the white board, as the team fired their differing theories back and forth.
‘I like this,’ he said, ‘but it’s all speculation at the moment. Which is only urging me on to find Donna Moran and get some real facts. We have to remember, the other four people in this friendship could be in danger also.’
‘Where’s Calvin Robinson now?’ Clarke asked.
‘Officially, we had no reason to keep him here, or put a tail on him. Despite there being something off about the lad, and the fact he’s definitely dabbling in some kind of narcotics, his pockets were empty. We’ll keep an eye on him, though, maybe through his movements on social media, Fraser?’
She nodded and quickly scribbled herself a note. ‘Also, boss, I couldn’t remember if I told you this already, but not only is Felicity Ireland the fiancée of Warren Speed, she’s also one of the friends who was on the getaway with Donna.’
‘Right, Dixon and I will go and have a chat with her. Clarke and Rocky, you take one of the others on the list each, and whoever finishes first can visit the last witness,’ Hamilton informed them.
If the swap in partners jarred Clarke, he didn’t bring any attention to the fact. Retrieving the contact details from Fraser’s desk, he left the office. Hamilton made a mental note to touch base with him later, just in case. For now, he needed to get to know Dixon more, and for him, this was the only way he knew how, other than unashamedly interrogating the poor woman.
Hamilton gazed up at the tall, mirrored windows of the office block in Euston, just twenty minutes after leaving the station. The drive had been surprisingly quiet, and although he’d planned to use the time to get to know Dixon more, something held him back. It wasn’t her obvious beauty, or athletic figure – ogling wasn’t his style – he hadn’t looked at another woman in that way since he’d met Elizabeth. Plus, he’d always preferred the fuller figure anyway. He assumed her earlier child-beating comment was at fault and decided to wait until she felt more comfortable with him before he started prying.
‘So, Felicity Ireland is a journalist. Interesting,’ Dixon commented, as they entered the building for Today’s News.
‘Not exactly your national coverage, but she could have friends in high places.’
‘You think she could have leaked the details about Warren Speed’s death?’
He sighed and waited for the woman at reception to acknowledge them. ‘Who knows the inner workings of a journalist’s mind. I’ve never had a great relationship with the press.’
After the introductions were made, Hamilton and Dixon were given the directions to Miss Ireland’s office. Surprised that the young lady, whose name tag read Fleur, didn’t escort them personally, he determined it must be an informal building. They took the lift to the third floor and stepped out into a large, open-plan office. No one bothered to look up from their work stations, either too busy drumming on their keyboards or having phone conversations. Various personal offices were situated around the side, most with the doors closed. He located the plaque he wanted: Felicity Ireland, Editorial Assistant.
He took a minute to watch the woman. Her wavy blonde hair fell around her porcelain face and swished on her shoulders as she moved between the laptop and files; nothing seemingly held her attention for long. When she glanced up, he recognised the look of melancholy in her bloodshot eyes, shadowed by the dark circles of sleep deprivation.
‘Hello, Miss Ireland. My name is Detective Inspector Hamilton, and this is Detective Sergeant Dixon. Could we come in and speak to you for a few moments, please?’
She closed a brochure containing a collage of wreath selections, and placed it into a drawer of the black desk. Far from a grand room, with its basic furniture and office supplies, it gained points for its picturesque view of Euston Square Gardens. The woman stood out in this plain office, Hamilton thought, dressed smarter than those outside in the open-planned office; a pink scarf hung loosely around her neck, falling onto a navy blazer and white shirt combo.
‘Of course, please take a seat,’ Felicity said and outstretched her hand to the two chairs in front of her. ‘Is this about Warren?’
‘Not directly. The Cumbria Constabulary are still processing the evidence. We’re here to ask you about Donna Moran.’
Felicity’s eyes widened for just a second, before she relaxed back into the chair, but the flush of red rising along her cheeks piqued Hamilton’s interest.
‘Really, why?’ she asked.
‘We’ve reopened Donna Moran’s missing person’s file and are visiting everyone who made an original statement after her disappearance.’
Dixon edged closer and casually leaned on the table, her black notebook and pen rested on her knee, out of sight. Felicity reached for a corner of her scarf and idly rubbed it between her fingers.
‘I don’t have anything to add to my original statement, Inspector,’ Felicity said. ‘I’m sorry, but nothing’s changed since I spoke to the police two years ago.’
Hamilton smiled and bridged his hands over his stomach. ‘Humour me, Miss Ireland. I’ve read a few reports, but I like to get a gist of things for myself. Just start from the beginning.’
He noted the woman’s slight eye roll, but she pulled her blazer closer across her chest and sat forward.
‘Donna and I were friends while we studied at Brunel University. We met during fresher’s week, when we first arrived, and developed a close bond over the following three years.’ She looked down. ‘We were good friends.’
‘And the weekend she went missing … you were on some kind of trip, is that correct?’
Felicity bit on her lower lip and made eye contact with him again. ‘Yes. We graduated the same year and decided a cheeky weekend away to celebrate was what we all needed. I found a great offer on Groupon, and we visited Ambleside. The night before we were due to travel back to London …’ she said hesitantly.
Not wanting to interrupt her flow, Hamilton and Dixon remained quiet.
‘Donna was a bit … weird. She wouldn’t tell us what was going on, but decided to go for a walk. She never came back.’
‘So, you just decided to leave the Lake District without her?’ Dixon asked, and Hamilton smiled internally. His colleague’s tone appeared light, but the question forceful.
‘No, not all,’ Felicity exclaimed. ‘When we went to her room the following mor
ning, her bag was gone, and she’d left a note. It said … she just wanted to get home, and that she’d already left. Except when we finally arrived back in London, her mum said she hadn’t seen or heard from her. I tried to call … but it kept going to voicemail. Mrs Moran said we had to make a statement to the police, report Donna missing. But your guys didn’t help much, because Donna was twenty-one and had left of her own free will.’
Hamilton sat forward and nodded in reply to Felicity’s final defensive comment. ‘And who is this “we” you’ve mentioned? Could you give us the names of those on the trip with you?’
‘I’m confident you have all this information, Inspector.’
He smiled and raised his eyebrows.
‘Fine! Other than myself and Donna, Warren, Todd Bell, Holly Walker, and Calvin Robinson.’
‘Ah, yes, we’ve already spoken to Mr Robinson.’ Hamilton waited for a reaction, but Felicity’s expression remained unchanged. ‘Have you, or any of your friends, heard from Donna at all in the past two years?’
‘No, nothing.’ She gazed at the mounds of paperwork on her desk, and her focus seemed to slip away while she spoke. ‘For a while, after that weekend, I would check Twitter and Facebook every single day. I guess I was hoping she’d post something, even a photograph to let us know she was okay. But nothing ever came. She just vanished.’
‘You mentioned Donna’s mood being a bit off the last time you saw her,’ Dixon said. ‘Could she have had an argument with anyone, either someone at Ambleside or back in London? A boyfriend, perhaps?’
Felicity gently shook herself back to the present. ‘I don’t know. Donna was kind of seeing Warren at the time.’
Dixon and Hamilton exchanged glances. ‘That wasn’t mentioned in any of the original statements,’ he said.
‘Why would it have been? They fooled around for a bit. It wasn’t anything serious. Everyone has a bit of fun while they’re at uni. And they definitely didn’t have a fight, or anything like that, while we were away.’
‘When did you and Warren begin dating, Miss Ireland?’ Hamilton continued.
Her eyes glistened. She clenched her jaw while brushing the tears away. ‘About five or six months after … after Donna ran away. It was New Year’s Eve, and we’d grown even closer than before … comforted each other. We just couldn’t comprehend why Donna would run away, without a word to us. We had all been so close. Anyway, that night, we made a promise to each other to move on with our lives. Now … Warren’s gone, and I don’t … understand.’ Felicity caught the falling teardrops with a tissue she grabbed from a box on the table. ‘Why are you asking me these questions? Is Donna involved with Warren’s murder? That’s why you’re asking about their relationship now, after all this time. Have you finally found her?’
‘No, Miss Ireland, we haven’t found Donna. But we are making an effort to do so. I think we’ll leave it there, for now,’ Hamilton said and stood up. ‘Here’s my card. If there’s anything you can think of to help –’
‘Now you’re looking for her?’ Felicity roared and jumped from her seat. ‘Now that two years has passed. What about Warren? What about my fiancé? Who’s looking for his murderer?’
‘I can understand your frustrations and pain, Miss Ireland. Please know, your fiancé’s case is being investigated.’
‘He’s just another case to you. But … he’s a person. A person I loved. A human being …’
‘Who was murdered in the same vicinity where you last saw your missing friend, Miss Ireland. We cannot ignore that fact.’
Despite Hamilton neglecting to inform Felicity of the hand-written note extracted from Warren’s mouth, he hoped his stern tone opened her eyes to the severity of both investigations. Part of him wanted to warn her, but he didn’t feel there was enough evidence in play, and the last thing he wanted was to ram fear into an already grieving woman. Or shake the murderer’s resolve, causing them to flee before they had a chance to make an arrest. Felicity fell back into her chair and swivelled away from them. Facing the window, she dismissed them completely.
Exiting the building, something played on Hamilton’s mind, an unnerving feeling rumbled in the pit of his stomach.
‘Miss Ireland’s version of events were the same as Mr Robinson’s.’
Dixon lingered at the car door. ‘Isn’t that a good thing?’
‘I mean, the same as in pretty much word-for-word. Like they were reading from a script. Feels a bit unnatural, especially after all this time.’ He shook his head. ‘Let’s go and have a chat to the others, and see how we feel once we’ve gathered all of the statements.’
As Hamilton lowered himself to get in the car, a figure in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He snapped his head up, but the road was empty. Despite being parked on a side-street, he frowned at the quietness of a busy London area. As the engine roared to life, he shrugged it off, and his thoughts quickly returned to the case.
8
She slips the black, lace bra from her small, milky breasts. I can’t take my eyes off her. It’s not why I’m here, crouched in my hideout across the street, but now that I’m watching … I can’t stop myself.
Do people really believe those wooden blinds protect their privacy? I can clearly see everything she’s doing. Any prying eyes could, through those open slats. Why does no one around here feel the need to have net curtains, to shield the very windows into their homes? There were always net curtains hanging in the houses I grew up in … but, perhaps that says more about my trashy upbringing than it does about her.
I snap the twig I’ve been twiddling in my fingers and ball a fist. She’s moved out of my view. I release the crumbled stick and reach for another, a larger one that won’t break under the slightest pressure. I like to keep my hands busy when I follow her … which has become a regular occurrence over the last few weeks. A light from behind the frosted glass window in the bathroom illuminates her shadow, and my sigh of irritation transforms into a pleasurable groan. I can’t see her body anymore, but I can imagine what she’s doing.
Lately, she’s distracted. For obvious reasons, I guess. But there’s more playing on her mind … I know what she’s like. The police have been hanging around, taking a particular interest in her, I think. I knew that mixed-raced copper would be a fucking problem. She’s acting differently – there’s a slump in her shoulders where she once walked tall with confidence. She’s lost control, leaning on people, seeking their advice and guidance, which is very out of character for Miss Independent.
My thighs throb, so I stand slightly, still arched and concealed by the park trees and shrubbery. I think more about her change in character and wonder if it was always going to happen, eventually –no one can play that charade forever – or have my recent actions spiralled her into the unknown. Either way, perhaps this could be a blessing and work in my favour. Her unreliability is increasing … the twitchy nervousness she now exudes is undeniable. Surely, she’ll tell the truth now. Surely, she’ll have to confess.
An elderly man totters on the pavement in the direction of my hideout, so I squat back down, further into the bushes. The sniffing from his ugly dog is vociferous; on the other side of the wall, they walk closer and closer to me. I grab a large rock, prepare to smash it over the mongrel’s head. The old man too, if need be. But I hear him call “Lucky” and grunt while impatiently pulling at the dog’s lead.
Lucky, indeed.
It’s time to make a decision. There’s no denying I need to find out what happened that night, and I know I must stop hesitating. It won’t be easy, but I owe it to myself. I owe it to her.
I take a deep breath, filling my nostrils with the dose of fresh air I need to push myself forward. Spluttering, I realise the mangy mutt took a shit on the other side of where I’m hiding. That’s why the old man ran away so fast. My blood boils. Dog owners have no fucking respect for people who live around here, allowing their beasts to defecate wherever, fuck the consequences. I could have stepped in it when I cli
mbed over the wall.
An empty, blue, plastic bag blows in the gentle wind, barely making it off the ground before it’s caught by the bush. Where did it come from?
My anger subsides as an idea blossoms in my mind, as though the bag is a sign of what I must do next. I carefully creep over the wall, into the open street, my back to her house, and slide my hand into the plastic bag. I scoop up the hot lump of dog faeces, gag slightly, and tie a knot at the top of the bag.
I could use this against her. She’s already worrying, on the verge of breaking down, perhaps I could speed things along. Push her over the edge, until she has no choice but to tell me everything I need to know. Give me everything I need to move on.
The annoying beep of a text message yanks me from my plan, and thrusts me back into the putrid reality I’m stuck in. I turn to see a figure on the other side of the street, outside her front gate, but engrossed with the mobile phone in their hand. I slip away, walking further up the street, but keep my eyes on her house for a few moments more.
Despite the shit swinging in my hand, I can’t contain the vigorous whistle escaping my lips. Warren got off pretty lightly, when I think about it. Although I’d planned everything, it was rushed. I will not make that same mistake again.
9
Three years ago
The deep, rustic voice of Bryan Adams filled the dark bar. Felicity tipped her head forward, blonde curls flowing freely, as she imagined herself as the rocking guitar player on stage, and sang “Summer of ’69” at the top of her voice. The multiple strobe lights ran over her hip-shaking body, as the solo instrument blared through the speakers, and she sashayed across the dance floor to her friends, who stood watching and laughing from the bar.
