Deadly Friendship (DI Hamilton Book 3)

by Tara Lyons

  ‘He was drugged, with Botox? What … I don’t understand,’ Felicity explained. ‘I didn’t even know that was possible. I’ve heard nothing like it before.’

  Hamilton nodded. ‘I appreciate this is a lot of information to digest at once. Further tests are still to be conducted, and we’ll keep you informed. In the meantime, we’d like to get a better understanding of your fiancé’s life.’

  Felicity sighed, her watering eyes focused on the floor. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘We need to know why Warren travelled to Ambleside, what his plans were, and if he was alone.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Felicity replied and looked at Hamilton; her face reddened, not flushed any longer, but stained with a mixture of old and fresh tears.

  He frowned. ‘Were you in the habit of going on weekends away without telling each other the details?’

  ‘Detective, we’re both very busy … were very busy people. Our jobs are demanding and not your normal nine-to-five. For Warren, also being in the public eye, he often had to dart off to promotional events and such like. He said he’d be back Sunday, and that was all I knew.’

  ‘So, you did know he was travelling somewhere?’

  Felicity exhaled loudly through her nose. ‘Yes. He sent me a text on Saturday morning, to let me know he’d be away for the night. He was hoping to secure a TV interview, but that was all the information he gave me, I didn’t know where he was going. I was shocked to find out it was Ambleside. He hasn’t returned there since …’

  ‘Since your friend, Donna, went missing.’ Hamilton finished her sentence. ‘Would anyone else have been privy to Warren’s travel arrangements?’

  ‘His personal assistant, Claire Newcomb, probably would have arranged the tickets for him. I haven’t managed to talk to her yet though. I’m in the dark as much as you, Detective. When will I be able to see Warren ... Oh God! I don’t know if I can see him. Was he badly beaten? Does he still look like the Warren I know?’

  Felicity allowed the tears to gush down her cheeks, as she cupped her hands over her face.

  Hamilton moved forward to the edge of the beige two-seater sofa and spoke softly to her. ‘Warren’s body will be released shortly, and you can begin organising the funeral. I’m sure we can arrange for you to see him first, if that’s what you choose. It’s a very natural human need to see the things that upset us the most. Once it’s real in your mind, it makes it easier to mourn and move on.’

  She inhaled deeply, brushing the wet streams away with the back of her hand and nodded in agreement. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Could we have Claire Newcomb’s details, please?’ Dixon asked. ‘If she conducted Warren’s travel arrangements, we need to speak to her immediately.’

  ‘She didn’t just arrange them. Claire Newcomb was also with Warren,’ Hamilton said.

  Felicity gasped. ‘What? How do you know that?’

  Hamilton took a few moments to explain to both women his involvement with discovering Warren’s body, and his brief chat with Claire afterwards.

  ‘Well, maybe she went with him on these things,’ Felicity said. ‘As his assistant, I guess that makes sense.’

  Hamilton watched the creases in her forehead deepen, her eyes focusing on nothing in particular, as though her mind ticked in overdrive. He also realised they would not receive any substantial information from Felicity; when it came to Warren’s life, she obviously wasn’t the woman in the know.

  ‘I didn’t know Claire was with him,’ she added, as an afterthought. ‘But then, I didn’t even know he’d travelled to Lake Windermere. He never wanted to return, not after what happened to Donna,’ Felicity repeated herself.

  Dixon returned the notebook to her pocket, evidently on the same wavelength as Hamilton. ‘Well, something enticed him there.’

  Hamilton decided to leave Felicity with that thought, hoping it would spark a memory, or something of use from her. Met with silence, he clenched his fists as they made their way back out onto the street and across to his car.

  ‘What’s eating you, boss?’ Dixon asked.

  ‘I’m frustrated,’ he grumbled. ‘We barely know our victim, except he was brutally tortured and secretly visiting Ambleside. We have no suspects, the syringe and knife used to kill him haven’t been recovered, and it would take us over four hours on a good day to revisit the crime scene.’

  ‘What about the rope used to tie Speed to the gate?’

  ‘Nothing of interest came back from that, though the team in Ambleside are carrying out more tests. Plus, an item like that could have been purchased from pretty much any shop in town.’

  ‘Are things ever simple when it comes to murder?’

  He smiled gingerly and hitched up his shoulder. ‘No, I guess you’re right. Look, let’s call it a day and start fresh tomorrow. Claire Newcomb will be our top priority, and we’ll go from there. Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Dixon smiled. ‘I left Warren, which is actually my husband’s name too, with the car today and caught the tube into work. We’re only about ten minutes from Wembley Park Station. I can catch a direct link from there.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘Yeah, I like a good walk sometimes. Blows the cobwebs away, as my Mum used to say, and gives me some much-needed, peaceful thinking time. Who knows what kind of ideas I’ll have tomorrow. And I promise I won’t be late again.’

  It was Hamilton’s turn to smile as she waved goodbye, and he climbed into the car. He felt pleased some progress had been made with Dixon; she seemed friendly and professional, and that worked for him. He began the half hour drive back into London, hoping he wouldn’t be held up by too much traffic. The desire to get home, put his feet up and chill out overwhelmed him.

  Forty minutes later, he eased into his drive and turned off the ignition. Since the night his daughter had taken her own life, Hamilton no longer sat in the car long after he parked, basking in the quietness of his own company. He wanted to be inside his family home, soaking up all the love and familiarity it contained; despite it now only being himself and Elizabeth.

  As he slammed the car door shut, Hamilton froze. With no breeze in the late August evening, the rustling of leaves was out of place. He remained motionless, sensitive to every noise around him.

  The twig snapping underfoot.

  The distinctive panting.

  The crunch of shrubbery as a figure emerged from the bushes.

  Hamilton spun, just in time to see a large, hooded figure dash from his front garden into the quiet cul-de-sac. The shock took him by surprise, and he faltered for a few moments before giving chase. A silhouette turned left onto the main road, as Hamilton sprinted down the street, humid night air attacking his dry mouth. He came to a stop, bending over and resting his hands on his knees while scanning the main road. Pedestrians strolled along the pavement, cars halted at the red light and people crowded at the nearest bus stop. He couldn’t make out where the mystery man had gone.

  Turning around to walk home, Elizabeth’s face flashed in his mind. The breath caught in this throat. He wildly ran, feet stomping hard against the paving slabs, his thighs as heavy as cement slowed him down. He fell onto the front door, the keys slipping through his sweaty hands. Welcomed by complete silence, the fear shook his entire body while he screamed Elizabeth’s name. Frantically, he opened doors. The living room and kitchen empty. The stillness created a blind mist fogging his eyes.

  ‘Denis, what in heaven’s name is wrong?’

  He whirled three-hundred and sixty degrees in the hallway to find Elizabeth standing half-way down the stairs in her towelling dressing-gown. The confusion etched on her face clarified nothing out of the ordinary had happened in his house, and he exhaled deeply. He marched towards her, his head dropped onto her stomach as he wrapped his arms around her and drank in her scent. Towering above him from a few steps up, she hushed and hugged him tightly in return.

  ‘I’m sorry. I overacted,’ he finally said and pulled a
way from her.

  She walked down to his level. ‘You were screaming like a mad man. What happened?’

  Hamilton described the events of the past few minutes, which already seemed like hours to him, and how he thought someone had attacked her.

  ‘Jesus, you work for the Met, Denis. Surely you’re used to chasing the bad guys?’ she said, with a giggle.

  He lightly placed a hand on either side of her face. ‘I’m not usually running from my own house. And where you’re concerned, I’ll always worry. If someone was in this house … I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ he said affectionately.

  ‘Don’t be daft. You’ve ensured this house is like Fort Knox. No-one could get in here without our say so.’ She smiled, walked over to the front door, and keyed in the alarm system code. ‘There, everything is fine. You never leave things at work, and despite our break away, you’re always assuming the worse. You probably imagined seeing someone out there, or it was just kids messing about.’

  For a few minutes, he felt foolish. But the more he replayed what had happened since parking on the drive, the more he was certain. He nodded, agreeing with his wife to keep her from joining his anxious mood.

  With dinner already prepared, and keeping warm in the oven, Elizabeth suggested they eat in the living room. A comedy film on Netflix was exactly the distraction he needed, she’d said. Cuddling on the sofa, engrossed in a mindless movie each evening, was sometimes exactly what got Hamilton through a difficult day. Occasionally, Clarke would tease him, quipping that he and his wife were old before their time and should live more. He played along with the banter, knowing what he had was actually the thing most men secretly wanted; they were just too afraid to admit it. Yet tonight, he couldn’t be further from the enjoyment of a relaxing evening at home.

  After they’d eaten, Hamilton drummed his index finger on his closed lips. The television became background noise as he stared through the forty-five-inch set. Later, with Elizabeth ready for bed, he urged her on, explaining he needed to secure downstairs. He lingered in the kitchen for a moment, his mind still racing, and unlocked the back door. Stepping out into the garden, he waited, but nothing came. No security light detected his movement. He listened to the twilight sounds. A light wind whispered in the trees. A distant car engine. A squawk from a nocturnal creature.

  Hamilton returned to the kitchen, locked the door, and pulled out a chair at the dining table. Knowing he’d changed the security lights the week before, he thought the chance of another broken bulb so soon too coincidental. Convinced he, his wife, or his house were being watched, he sat firm in his position for the rest of the night, waiting for an attack to come.

  13

  Fraser watched silently as the woman paced the living room. Just forty-three, the records had indicated, yet Joan Moran’s back hunched over, as if too heavy for her slim, frail body to carry. The weight of the world looked like it literally sat on her shoulders, and every step she took pained her to do so. A natural beauty shone through, despite the pale face, sunken skin, and bloodshot eyes; Fraser wondered if the woman had cried every day for past two years.

  The faded blue denim of Joan’s jeans could easily be attributed to the furious rubbing of her hands, up and down her thighs, over and over again. Her thoughts elsewhere, the woman had mumbled incoherently since Fraser had explained the re-opening of her daughter’s case.

  The twenty-four-hour BBC news channel played, muted, from the television. Occasionally, Joan’s eyes wandered over to read the breaking news, before the marching resumed. The crammed room gave the impression that a busy workaholic used it; a laptop, radio, piles of newspapers, hundreds of missing persons’ posters, maps and handwritten notes. It resembled the incident room, on a much smaller scale.

  Fraser caught the woman fiddling with a solid gold wedding band on her left hand and frowned. All the information she’d obtained from the Missing Person’s database had identified this woman as a single mother. While it was possible Joan had married since Donna’s disappearance, she found it highly unlikely.

  ‘Is there someone I can call for you, Joan? Your husband, perhaps?’

  ‘Got a direct line with the devil, have you? He’s dead. Five years before Donna left for Brunel, her father stepped out in front of train. I became a widower and single parent overnight. I don’t know why I’ve never taken this thing off,’ she said, signalling to the ring. ‘There’s no redemption for suicide, you know? It’s the biggest sin.’

  At that moment, Fraser noticed the bible on the small side-table by the armchair opposite her. The cracked spine, various creases, and tatty pages turned down were clearly evident.

  ‘Are you a religious family?’ Fraser asked.

  Joan shook her head. ‘I wasn’t … not until last year. The local church is a pillar of strength, and the people help me distribute leaflets and photographs of Donna.’

  ‘How was your daughter, after her father died? I mean, did she bottle-up her feelings? Perhaps it could explain why she ran away?’

  Joan finally took a seat in the armchair and sighed. ‘They weren’t very close … they just didn’t get each other. Donna is very logical and academic, and likes to get things done. Keith … the total opposite. After the redundancy, everything just snowballed downhill for him. Depression took hold of him.’ She wiped a single tear away and crossed her arms. ‘Donna and I … we were there for each other, but neither of us fell apart.’

  Fraser nodded, sensing it caused the woman pain, but the need to delve further into Donna’s disappearance urged her on. ‘Do you think you could tell me, from your own perspective, about Donna’s weekend away, and the events that followed it?’

  Joan sprung from her seat, pacing again, and talking at full speed. ‘My daughter did not run away. She was happy, and looking forward to securing a job now she’d graduated with flying colours. I never received a text or a phone call to say she was coming back to London … you see, it just doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘But the Cumbria Constabulary were satisfied Donna had left Ambleside –’

  ‘Don’t give me that!’ Joan interrupted, perched on the edge of the armchair and wagged her index finger in the air. ‘Those country coppers couldn’t give a shit about a girl from London who didn’t find her way home.’

  ‘I’ve read the files, Joan. The inspector in charge examined the CCTV footage of Ambleside station and identified Donna catching the train towards London on Sunday morning.’

  Joan blew her lips together, like a child blowing a raspberry. ‘Ha! Please. It was a grainy clip, ten seconds, if that, of the back of a blonde girl with a backpack like Donna’s. It could have been anyone, for crying out loud. And what about the coppers here? As much use as a flaming chocolate teapot.’ The woman’s tempo increased. ‘They wouldn’t check the CCTV at Waterloo or Kings Cross to see if that’s where Donna got off the train.’

  ‘That could have taken days. She didn’t use the pre-ordered train ticket with her friends, and there was no way of the Constabulary finding out which ticket she’d purchased from the machine at the station before heading off to London … if that was indeed her direction of travel.’

  ‘They didn’t make an appeal on Crimewatch, or the news, like I’ve seen for so many other kids.’

  ‘Donna was twenty-one.’

  ‘There wasn’t even an article in the national papers.’

  ‘These cases are very difficult.’ Fraser waited, but Joan had run out of steam and wasn’t interrupting anymore. ‘We have to take into account Donna’s age and no danger of foul play. She was with her friends …’

  ‘Exactly! Why would she just leave Warren and Holly? She loved them. She would have told them why, given them a reason … I know she would have.’

  Fraser asked Joan about Donna and Warren’s relationship, not wanting to give too much evidence away. The woman reaffirmed the pair had indulged in a bit of fun, but according to her daughter, it had been nothing serious.

  ‘Donna has an amazin
g spirit. Everyone is drawn to her,’ Joan said, relaxing slightly in the chair and staring at a spot over Fraser’s head. ‘She wants to please everyone. She’s the listener, the joker, the confidante, the leader, or … whatever role you need for her to be. Donna bends herself to suit her friends. I never appreciated it before; it was just her way. But I understand now that those types of people are actually stronger than any of us. They take everything on board, selflessly readjust themselves, and become who their friends need. Over the years, she did that for me, especially when I wasn’t the strongest of mothers. I took it for granted.’

  Joan dragged her concentration back to the present and met Fraser’s gaze for a few seconds. The woman shook her head and moved to the edge of the chair, before continuing. ‘Anyway, it was their university years. Donna and Warren were a bit of fun; my girl didn’t need a man tying her down. Although, I think that Felicity had a problem with it more than anyone else. Of all Donna’s friends, I liked her the least … I never trusted her. There was something about her that didn’t feel real. Mothers can sense these things.’

  Joan continued to bash Felicity Ireland’s character for a few more minutes, while Fraser made mental notes. She didn’t want to disturb the women while she was being so forthcoming about the friends they were investigating. Suddenly, Joan stopped talking and look directly at Fraser. The woman’s brown eyes grew black, the heavy bags under them turned a deeper shade of purple.

  ‘You think Donna’s disappearance is connected to Warren’s death, don’t you?’

  Despite Hamilton’s warning of not giving away too much information, Fraser’s heart pulled when she looked at the desperate woman in front of her.

  ‘Please, Detective … I have to know.’

  Fraser inhaled deeply. ‘Yes. Donna’s case has been reopened because we feel there could be a link with Warren Speed’s murder.’