by Tara Lyons
‘I’ll be here. Something’s caught my attention on these background files, and I need to make a few calls,’ Hamilton replied and waited for Rocky to leave before lifting the receiver and dialling his mother’s home phone number.
Once Philippa had calmed down, shocked by her son’s call so close to midnight, she asked why he’d phoned.
‘I’m working on a case, and one of the people we’ve interviewed has connections with someone in the Lake District. She’s an elderly lady, living in Keswick. It’s a long shot, I know, but I wondered if you might know her?’
Philippa sniggered. ‘And you’re asking me because all old women know each other?’
‘Mum –’
‘Ha! What’s the woman’s name then, or do I have to guess it?’
‘Monica Summers.’
Hamilton winced, pulling the phone away at the sound of his mother’s shrieking laughter growing louder and louder.
‘Would you Adam and Eve it, I do bloody know the woman,’ she said, once the giggles had subsided. ‘What do you need to know, love?’
He raised his eyebrows, a slight sigh escaping through his pouted lips; he hadn’t really expected his mother to be of any help.
‘Well, what can you tell me about her?’
Philippa’s muffled moans and groans travelled down the line, and Hamilton envisioned his mother making herself comfortable. He’d never call her a gossip, but she was usually the first to know what happened on their street when he was growing up.
‘She’s a lovely lady, Denis. We hold a book club meeting in my tea room once a month, and she always makes the journey from Keswick to attend. It’s not a million miles away, I know, but she’s old and very frail. Anyhow, I felt bad one evening, and so I offered to drive her home after the book club. She told me all about her husband; he was been a doctor, but passed away some years ago, and they could never have kids. They fostered and adopted for a while. She was here last week, actually, delighted the sale of her house had finally gone through. It had been on the market for over a year.’
‘Monica lives alone then?’
‘Yes, sad, isn’t it? Oh, but the house, love, you should see it.’ Philippa whistled. ‘It’s three-storeys high, up on the hill, with glorious views of the lake. Just amazing. Not that the poor cow gets to appreciate it, says she hasn’t been upstairs for about five years. Can you believe that? What a waste. I think she wants to move into a residential care home, the arthritis is too painful now, God love her.’
Hamilton’s mother continued to chatter on about Monica Summers and the tea rooms and the latest book the club had chosen to read. Despite the phone resting against his ear, his mind ran away with his thoughts.
‘Mum, has she ever mentioned any of the children she’d adopted? Do any of them still visit?’
Philippa grunted, clearly not found of being interrupted mid-flow. ‘No, they bloody well don’t visit. Isn’t that gratitude for you? The two adopted daughters left for university three or four years ago, and haven’t visited since, she told me. Although, one of them does write regularly throughout the year, checking on Monica’s health, and if she still lives in that grand house all alone. I guess that’s better than nothing, hey?’
‘Yeah. Look, Mum, I’m going to pass Mrs Summers’ details on to a colleague local to the area, so someone from the constabulary might pop in to visit her. Purely routine, nothing of significance, but don’t be telling everyone at your book club, okay?’
‘Don’t be silly, son, what do you take me for?’
His attention was distracted by Fraser, who now stood in the office doorway, waving the same piece of paper he’d written on not twenty minutes earlier. Hamilton said goodbye to his mother, promising to call her for an unrelated work chat soon.
‘Come in, Fraser. I’m sorry to be bombarding you with things, but I’ve made a few notes, and I need you to get in touch with Inspector Bennett’s office in Cumbria.’
‘No problem, I can add that to my list. Now, about the name you gave me; I wasn’t exactly sure what it was you wanted me to find out,’ Fraser said and took a seat opposite Hamilton. ‘But after a quick search I discovered William Thorn has lived with Dorinda Ireland, a self-employed landscape gardener, for three years. But what I think you’ll be interested in is Mr Thorn works at Brunel University, and has done so for the last three years, as a student counsellor. I assumed that could be the link you were looking for –’
Hamilton jumped from his chair and marched into the incident room, his eyes darting around until they landed on one of his team.
‘Good, you’re still here, Dixon. Come on, you’re with me,’ he growled.
Fraser rushed up behind him. ‘Boss, who’s this Thorn guy?’
Hamilton attempted to control his unsteady breathing and calm his erratic heart rate. He unclenched his fists and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, while looking between the two female sergeants either side of him, both waiting for answers. With a heaviness in his voice, Hamilton explained his connection to Billy, or William as he was more commonly known now, and the discovery of his old friend’s relationship with the victims and university.
‘So, you want to go and have a word with him now?’ Dixon questioned, her usually wide eyes now small and red.
‘Of course I do, regardless of the time. I want to know why my old school friend is trying to push himself back into my life, and exactly what it is he’s hiding. Fraser, concentrate on the last four years and see what else you can find out about Billy; where he’s lived, and worked, who he’s socialised and interacted with.’
Hamilton broke off and stared aimlessly into the office. The anger swam through him like hot lava as he pictured his oldest mate lying and deceiving him. However, he wasn’t about to lose the momentum with this case, and he tried to shake off the irritation gnawing at his skin.
‘Boss, it can be difficult to talk to a friend in these circumstances. Would you prefer if I attended with Dixon?’ Fraser asked, her tone light but forceful.
‘I’ll be fine; William Thorn hasn’t been a friend of mine for some time now. Right, Dixon, let’s get on with this.’
Hamilton thumped on the front door harder than necessary, disturbing the quietness of a sleepy street after 1 a.m. He eyed Dixon, but she looked away. Pulling his shoulders tall, he inhaled deeply through his nose and fixed his suit jacket back into place. There was no way he wasn’t getting the opportunity to talk to Billy first.
The door opened, and Hamilton was surprised to find his old friend fully clothed and looking wide awake. The pair glared at each other, their breathing synced as unspoken words and questions passed between them, until Dixon cleared her throat and broke the spell off.
‘I guess you should come in,’ Billy said and opened the door further, before walking to the back of the house.
The steam from the kettle whistled as Hamilton and Dixon entered the kitchen. The stench of coffee filled the room, and the humming laptop on the dining table showed signs of life. What Hamilton wanted to know was, had his old friend been sat waiting for him to knock on the door?
‘Dorinda’s staying with a close family friend tonight, and I always find it hard to sleep when she’s not here,’ Billy said, while filling three mugs with hot water. ‘I’m always worried I won’t hear Amelia if she wakes in the night. I’ve been using the time to get some work done.’
Hamilton pulled a metal chair away from the table and sat down. ‘University work?’
Billy exhaled loudly, dropped the teaspoon to the work surface, and turned to face the detectives. ‘I wondered how long that would take.’
‘What? For us to find out you actually have more than one connection with two murder victims? You should have saved us all some time and told me yourself.’
‘Which I would have done, if you weren’t so bloody suspicious the last time I spoke to you.’
He chortled. ‘Really, Billy? Well, why don’t you make things easier for yourself now and tell me exactly where you
were the night Felicity Ireland was murdered.’
Billy moved slowly, sliding a mug along the breakfast island to Dixon, who had refused to take a seat but held her notebook and pen in hand. He then deposited the other two cups on the table and pulled out the chair opposite Hamilton. He blew over the hot contents of the mug before sipping, eyes remaining fixed on Hamilton over the rim.
‘If you’re calling me a murderer, I don’t know what kind of friend you are, Den,’ Billy eventually spoke, and lowered the mug onto the table.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Hamilton, Mr Thorn, not your friend. My question is a serious one, and if you have a problem answering it, we can have this conversation at the station.’
Hamilton’s body tensed, shocked by Billy’s demeanour; it was curious for his friend to be so confident and cocky. The coffee aroma wafted up from the mug into his nostrils, and he pushed it away. They might not have spoken for four years, but Billy knew of Hamilton’s disgust for the beverage.
‘Come on, there’s no need for all this, Den. We’re bloody mates, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know, no bother.’
‘I’ve already asked you –’
‘Yes, yes, okay. That night, I finished worked at about 5 p.m., I locked the office door, left the building, and got into my car. I drove to The Duck in the Pond pub, had one pint, and then drove round to your house. I waited outside for a while, I don’t know, maybe half an hour. I saw Elizabeth come home, but thought it best I waited for you. After you drove off like a bat out of hell, I went back to the pub. Left the car there, and by the time I’d walked home, Dorinda had been told the news about Felicity.’
‘Did you know Felicity before you started working at Brunel University?’
‘No. And I met Dorinda through Felicity one evening at the bar.’
‘A habit of yours to socialise with your students?’
‘It’s not like that, Den. They’re not my students, like you think. I’m not there to teach them; they’re not sent to me if they don’t hand in coursework, or anything like that.’
Hamilton shrugged and turned down his lips. ‘Do explain your role to us then.’
‘A friend of mine is an influential player on the faculty board at the university. A few years ago, he heard I was having a tough time and was out of work. He’d wanted to run an experiment at Brunel, create a place where the students could go if they needed some counselling, advice, or just someone to talk to. My office may be located on campus, and I may be paid by the university, but I’m seen as a separate entity. A place for students to feel safe.’
‘Hmm … I’d still bet it’s not a great idea for you to drink with said students. So, was it a regular occurrence?’
Billy sighed, and Hamilton saw the resolve fade from his eyes; now, he looked tired. ‘It was a one off, a university celebration, many of the facility were there. Felicity introduced me to Dorinda, but nothing happened straight away. A few weeks later, I bumped into her in Uxbridge, and we went for a coffee. I’m sure you’re not so straight-laced these days I have to explain how things progressed from there.’
‘What about Felicity’s friends, and partner, Warren Speed? How well did you know them?’
‘Well, Warren was Felicity’s fiancé; he was like family to me and Dorinda. But we didn’t really socialise with them. There was one friend, Calvin, I saw him on campus quite a lot, and we chatted a few times.’
‘About what?’ Hamilton probed.
‘Nothing in particular, really. He was a cool kid and served me lunch in the bar sometimes. He said his grades weren’t good enough to join his friends in lectures, but I liked him. Actually, he reminded me of you a little bit. Blessed with street smarts and the gift of the gab.’
Dixon laughed from behind Hamilton, and he rolled his eyes. ‘Chatty is not how I’d describe myself, Billy,’ he retorted.
It was Billy’s turn to snigger. ‘No, you look a bit uptight these days, I must admit. But you certainly used to be the life and soul of every party, Den.’
Hamilton thought of how much his life had changed since the days of being a free-spirited eighteen-year-old. The recollections didn’t feel like his own any more. Could he really have been that young lad? Afro-hair grown longer than his mother approved of, partying until the small hours of the morning, and caring for no one but himself. The memories danced out of his reach, like the wisps of a dandelion he couldn’t catch. By twenty-one, he’d married, become a father, busy tying the cravat of his police uniform, and preparing for years of staring death in the face, including in his own home. But he knew now was not the time to think of Maggie.
‘I’m not the only one who’s changed,’ he finally replied, as he eyed Billy, a figure from his past he also didn’t recognise.
‘Yeah, well, sometimes, life deals you a shitty hand …’ Billy paused and sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Den, I know you’ve had your fair share of –’
‘Leave it,’ Hamilton interrupted. Although stunned his old friend’s thoughts had gone to the same place as his own, it was a conversation he wasn’t ready to have with Billy, and decided to press on with his questions. ‘Did you ever speak with Donna Moran, another friend of both Felicity and Warren’s, who attended Brunel with them?’
The colour drained from Billy’s face, and as he mumbled incoherently, his eyes fluttering between Hamilton and Dixon. He repeated the question, propelled by the hope of not being lied to. But could he read Billy as easily as when they were friends? Hamilton wondered. He noticed Dixon lift her head and study the man in front of them.
‘I met her a few times.’ Billy paused to lick his dry lips. ‘On campus, she visited my office once to talk about her coursework; although her grades were good, it was something she continually worried about, which could lead to panic attacks sometimes.’
‘And the other times?’
Billy rubbed his hand back and forth over his cropped, dark hair. ‘Erm … at Felicity’s house. She was having a BBQ, and I dropped Dorinda round, popped in briefly to say hi. Then, at their graduation ceremony, before …’
‘Before Donna Moran went missing,’ Hamilton finished Billy’s sentence and sat forward, resting his arms on the table. ‘Did you see, or speak, to Donna Moran after their trip to Ambleside?’
Billy shook his head, but wouldn’t meet Hamilton’s gaze. ‘I helped distribute flyers and posters around campus after her disappearance. Felicity was in a bad place, really struggling to understand why her friend had run away. Dorinda hadn’t long given birth to Amelia, so I tried to help them both out as best I could.’
Dixon took a step towards the table and hovered over both men. ‘Mr Thorn, were you having an affair with Felicity?’
‘What?’ Billy exclaimed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Dorinda and I may not be married, but I still thought of her sister as my own.’
‘We have to ask these questions, you understand, Mr Thorn,’ Dixon said.
Hamilton rose and stood next to his colleague. ‘We may need you to come down to the station to make an official statement,’ he informed Billy. ‘And we may have some more questions for you as the case develops.’
‘Of course, whatever you need. You know where I am now.’
As Dixon left the room, Hamilton glanced back at his old friend, the man he barely recognised. He wondered if the unfamiliarity was due to how much Billy had changed, or in fact, how much he himself had changed in the past four years.
24
The police are complete fucking idiots. They chase around and around for days, weeks, and months, even bloody years, in some cases, and are they any the wiser? I wonder if they actually know what they’re doing, or if it’s all a game of luck for them. If they catch a piece of CCTV, or if a witness gives them information, or if they find DNA at a crime scene. It’s what they wait for. They are handed all these little shreds of clues, and sometimes it works, I guess, but other times people are left to take the law into their own hands. So, I can totally understand why the number of criminals continues
to increase year after year. And why more and more people choose to join a gang … a family of protection. The police can’t help you.
I must be crazy, because part of me wants them to know it’s me. I’m the one clearing up their fucking mess and finding out the truth, finding out what really happened to Donna. She was abandoned by her friends, ignored by the police, and I won’t rest until everyone involved has paid for it. They had a chance to help her but decided to do nothing.
Donna reminded me so much of Becky. Exquisite to watch. The blinding sun bounced off them, glimmering against the golden strands of their hair, and tracing their milky skin … oh, so soft to touch. But as beautiful as they were, they were weak. I tried to save them both, but it was too late; they’d been misled. They were used by the very people they trusted, by the ones they thought loved them.
I loved them.
They belong to me. Even in death.
I’ve spent too many years of my life watching people have what I can’t. Why wasn’t I entitled to loving parents, who would beam with pride as I walked onto the stage and accepted a university degree? A mother to read me bedtime stories, and a father to take me out for my first legal drink. Why wasn’t I wrapped in the security blanket of older brothers and sisters, there to always fight my corner, no matter what? Or enjoy the fun and squabbles from younger siblings, who I could have taught and guided. To feel the touch of a lover, so genuine and sincere I’d only need look in their eyes to know I was the most important thing in their life.
Instead, I had selfishness forced upon me. I’ve never found it easy to share things. Or people, for that matter. For that, I blame my parents, who decided to bring me into this cruel world as an only child. When other adults in my life finally expected me to share, it was too late. I’d become the person I was destined to be. Over time, that selfishness transformed into self-interest, and it grew inside me like a tumour. Except, I enjoy my own cancer. I take pleasure in having what I desire the most. We were poor, and childhood wasn’t the best experience for me. While kids ran loose on their bikes and scooters, and had holidays aboard, I watched from the side-lines with nothing. The age of innocence, snatched from me because this city is evil and unfair. So, now I have the power to, I’ll take everything I want … no matter the consequences. Because who’s ever cared about me?
