by Jay Gill
Cotton spread out well-worn photographs showing the letters T, C, H, I, R, R.
Thinking out loud, I said, “With Lyle as our prime suspect we need to ask: Why did she choose them? What do they signify to her? What’s motivating her? Who are they to her?”
Cotton pointed to photos on her whiteboard. Next to each picture was a Scrabble letter.
“Letter I, Justin Grant, twenty years old. Letter H, Rachel Ellis, nineteen years old. They were thrown off a bridge with nooses around their necks. They had just met. A banner at the scene read— ”
“I know what it said.”
I’d seen pictures in the newspaper, and now the photographs were pinned to Cotton’s wall. I thought about the huge letters on the banner: HONK for Hardy & Cotton.
Passing commuters had had no idea what the message meant or even who Hardy and Cotton were, but it hadn’t stopped them honking their car horns with enthusiasm.
“You know about letter T, Martin Burke, and letter C, Dylan Durrant. Tied under piers and left to either drown with the incoming tide or bleed to death, their stomachs cut open and the contents pulled out.”
Cotton squeezed the bridge of her nose. Filled her lungs and expelled the air loudly. Processing it all was draining her.
We kept going.
I asked, “How about Etheridge? Why wasn’t his Scrabble piece left at the scene?”
“His Scrabble piece wasn’t with the body. Lyle must have worried it’d be destroyed in the explosion and fire. The only interesting thing is the watch. Which, if you are right, ties Lyle to Etheridge’s murder and you directly to her.” She looked up quickly. “I’m sorry. That sounded…”
“It’s fine. I know what you meant,” I said. There was no point denying a truth I could no longer escape: I was inextricably linked to Kelly Lyle and all these deaths.
Cotton moved on and pointed to a new photo. “Now there is also the letter R, Lee Nunn.”
Officers had established Nunn was last seen with a prostitute, although they hadn’t been able to determine whether he’d used girls in the past or whether the prostitute had had anything to do with his death.
Cotton added, “Nunn was killed on his birthday. My current thinking is that he went with a prostitute as a birthday treat to himself. It’s possible it was his first time.”
Solemnly, I said, “He wouldn’t be the first and won’t be the last, I’m sure.”
I pushed a photo of Etheridge front and centre now. “So why him?”
I could feel the weight of the investigation bearing down on my shoulders. But I couldn’t deny a part of me felt a little exhilarated at being back in the game. The chase was on.
“I was thinking about that overnight,” said Cotton.
Does this woman ever sleep? I thought.
“His death leaves the team without a leader, a void at the top.” She passed me an almond croissant.
I said, “Lyle must know I cannot take over Etheridge’s role in any official capacity.”
We sipped our coffees and stared at the photos in silence. I took a bite of my croissant and chewed thoughtfully. At length, I said, “I know I’m reaching, but could Etheridge have stumbled onto something important?”
“Like what? Lyle hasn’t hidden the fact she’s the killer. Quite the contrary – it feels like from the very beginning she was letting us know it was her. We just couldn’t join the dots until you pointed them out to us.”
Cotton pushed Etheridge’s photo to the top and lined up the other five victims in a row beneath. She said confidently, “Lyle’s intention was for Etheridge’s death to be the final push you needed to get involved.”
I wasn’t happy at that explanation, but it seemed the most logical. Lyle knew I wouldn’t be able to let her campaign of terror continue.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The next day, I called Cotton at the office and left her a voice message. I was glad when she didn’t pick up. I wasn’t ready to start explaining my thinking. Instead, I let her know I was going to Somerset to pursue a fresh line of enquiry.
The truth was, I could see all efforts to date had got us no closer to finding and stopping Lyle. If I were to assist Cotton in any meaningful way, I’d need to approach the investigation from a different angle. It was time to try something new.
This tactic wasn’t what Cotton had anticipated when she contacted me, however, and she might not sign off on it. But my gut was telling me we needed a fresh approach. Lyle had always stayed several steps ahead of pretty much everyone she knew her whole life. She was incredibly smart and intuitive, and we needed to understand her better. Understanding the real Kelly Lyle might help us catch a break.
I reached the Somerset borders around midday, just as the rain that had pursued me finally eased off. I forced myself to take a break and eat some lunch. I stopped at a pub called the Barley Mow Inn. Taking in the craftsmanship of its newly thatched roof, I made my way to a small back garden dotted with picnic benches. As I sat and watched people at other tables, leading seemingly ordinary lives, I started thinking about home. I was keen to avoid repeating mistakes I’d made in the past. I decided to call Monica. She picked up on the third ring and sounded in good spirits.
“I was thinking about you,” I said.
“Nothing naughty, I hope. You’re meant to be working. Are you okay? You sound down.”
“I’m good. You know how it is – a few doubts.”
“Listen. You don’t need to do this,” insisted Monica.
I loved the way she got straight to the heart of the matter. There was never any fluff or bullshit.
“Just walk away if you want to, James. We’ll find another way. If we have to, we’ll move as far away from Lyle as we can, somewhere she’ll never find us. You don’t owe anyone a damn thing. Only you can decide what has to be done here. Whether you attack this head-on or don’t, I’m behind you one hundred percent, whatever you decide. You know that. Just be careful, that’s all I ask.”
“I love you,” I said, forcing cheer into my voice. “You know how I get at the start of an investigation. It feels like I’m standing at the foot of Everest, ill-equipped to climb it.”
“Take that first step. It’s all you can do.”
“What would I do without you?” I said. I closed my eyes and pictured her standing barefoot in the kitchen clutching the phone, Sandy looking up at her side, tail wagging.
“I’ll get the girls to call you tonight.”
“That’d be lovely. Thank you.”
“That’s better. That’s my Jamie. I love you too. Stay safe and don’t be gone too long. The bed feels very empty without my man in it.”
Just over an hour later I arrived at the home of retired detective Richard Oatridge. His wife, Flo, was in the front garden of their cottage tying back some tall flowers, which she informed me were delphiniums. She was forcing bamboo canes into the ground and deftly running string between them.
“Do you have a garden, detective?” she said, straightening up and brushing dirt from her gloves.
“Nothing as beautiful as yours,” I said, admiring the riot of colour. “A few shrubs and some pots. Seeing this, I think I could be converted. What are these plants? The bees love them.”
Flo had a kind smile, and I could see she was delighted to share her knowledge. “These are echinacea. Beautiful, aren’t they? They’re one of my favourites. They’re also used in herbal remedies to relieve symptoms of colds and flu.”
I said, “I’m not sure I’ve seen a garden quite like this before.”
“Before we bought the cottage it had been owned by an elderly lady. The gardens were her life. They’re a very traditional English cottage garden style. In truth, the gardens are a large part of what made me fall in love with the place, and I suppose I felt a duty to continue her work. Before moving here, I’d never had any experience with gardening, but I soon realised that all I really had to do was care for the plants. Nature did the rest.”
“Well, it’s truly impres
sive,” I said.
Flo took off her gloves and tucked them in her back pocket. “I could talk about the gardens for hours, but I know you didn’t come all this way to hear me rattling on. Let me call Richard. As usual, he’s with his girlfriends. They seem to get more of his time than I do. Lately, though, Rose has been rather poorly, so he’s been spending even more time seeing to her needs. Between you and me, I’m starting to wonder whether she puts it on so she gets extra attention – you know how old girls can be. I don’t mind, though. It keeps him young and active and, most importantly, it keeps him out from under my feet for most of the day. We’ve always had our own interests. They say it’s one of the ingredients that makes a strong marriage. What do you think?”
“I suppose so,” I said, unsure how to answer.
The look on my face made Flo laugh. I soon learned that despite Flo’s wholesome appearance, she had a wicked sense of humour, and Richard’s ‘girlfriends’ were three rare-breed pigs named Molly, Rose and Delilah.
Chapter Thirty
Richard showered and joined Flo and me in the garden for a light dinner. As he approached from the house, I got to my feet and put out my hand to shake his. He walked slowly with the aid of a walking stick and appeared to be in considerable pain.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he whispered to Flo as she offered to help him to his seat.
He winked at me and smiled. “Cancer,” he said.
Flo flinched like she’d received a small electric shock as he spat the word.
“I’ll just take some painkillers. It’ll ease off in a bit. They told me a week before Christmas that I had cancer.” He laughed mirthlessly. “They told me it started in the prostate and had spread like wildfire. Nothing they can do. I’d left it too long before getting myself checked. Should have listened to Flo. She nagged and nagged, but did I listen? Of course not. Soon as you get back, go see your doctor. Get yourself checked, you hear me? It’s no joke. Get yourself checked.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I had no idea. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known.”
“Nonsense,” he barked. “Nobody knows. And why should they? I wanted you to come. What you said on the phone interests me. If it wasn’t for my beautiful Flo, and those damn pigs, taking my mind off what’s coming, I’d have gone crazy by now. Probably blown my brains out.”
Flo said, “For pity’s sake, Richard. Stop it.”
In an effort to get comfortable, he shifted in his seat. “My pigs belong to Frank, our neighbour. He’s got some land. He’s nutty as a fruitcake but the nicest guy I ever met. Frank and his pigs have taught me a lot about life. I’ll take you over there in the morning. We’ve assumed you’re going to stay for the night.”
“Well, I hadn’t intended to. I couldn’t impose.”
“Rubbish. You’re not imposing,” insisted Richard.
I looked at Flo, who nodded in agreement.
“Now, take off that bloody jacket and tie, undo that top button and roll up your shirt sleeves and relax,” said Richard. “The sun is out. We’re in Flo’s Garden of Eden, which is a work of wonder, and she’s no doubt prepared some great food.”
“It’s only chicken and vegetables,” she said modestly.
I did as Richard suggested. We talked about this and that while Flo prepared dinner.
During dinner, there was no talk surrounding the reason for my visit. Instead, we spent the evening listening to stories about Richard’s past as a detective, how he and Flo had first met, their children, and the adventures they’d had together over the years. They asked about my family, and I told them about Alice and Faith and Monica. They insisted I come back and bring them with me next time, and I promised I would. We talked until 10 p.m., when Richard got too cold and tired to continue. Full of apologies and resentment, he reluctantly retired to his room.
At breakfast, he looked like a new man and was ready to get to work.
“Eat your breakfast, James. The sausages and bacon are from Frank’s farm. Flo needs to pick up some bits in the village, and she is going to drive. We can talk on the way.”
Thirty minutes later, on our way to the nearest pharmacy and supermarket, we were driving past the farm where Lyle had grown up.
“Close your ears, Flo,” said Richard. “I need to talk police business with my friend James here.”
Flo raised her eyebrows in a manner suggesting she’d heard the line many times before.
Full of enthusiasm, Richard said to me, “No doubt you passed the Lyle farm on your way in?” I nodded. “Kelly Lyle’s father, Edwin, turned a modest dairy farm, inherited from his father, into one of the first large-scale industrial dairy farms in the UK, capable of producing large-volume and low-cost yields.
“It came at a time when supermarkets were beginning to take hold, and demand exceeded supply. Edwin Lyle was in the right place at the right time.
“With the profits from the farm, some property investments, some other ‘behind-closed-door’ deals and some clever accounting, Edwin Lyle became very wealthy. There is no doubt he was a smart businessman.
“The other thing there is no doubt about is that he was a mean bastard. A tyrant. An abusive bully who was prone to violent outbursts and furious rages. Rages that his wife and daughter bore the brunt of for many years.
“I have boxes of files on Kelly Lyle, and I’ve managed to gather medical records that show bone fractures and breaks on both Kelly and her mother, Theresa. I’m assured by experts the injuries sustained are consistent with serious violent assaults. In other words, he beat his wife and, from a young age, his daughter too. God only knows what else went on in that house behind closed doors. I don’t need to spell it out; you’ve seen enough cases to know.”
Flo parked the car. Richard and I walked to a small tea shop where he could keep warm and we could talk. I found us a table by the window and ordered two cream teas.
“You understand that I have no sympathy for Edwin Lyle,” he continued. “Once I discovered what the man was like I was glad he was dead. At the time, I was the lead detective, and I still had a job to do.”
I said, “I understand completely. We’re all in the same boat. We gather evidence. The court then decides justice.”
“Exactly, James. You know what I’m talking about; I don’t need to spell it out. Anyway, finally Theresa had had enough. She tried to get them both away from the old man. That failed, and Theresa was forced to abandon young Kelly. For close to a year the girl was alone with her father. The increasingly desperate mother eventually managed to grab Kelly while Edwin was away from the farm. For a short while, they were safe.
“It didn’t take long for Edwin, with all his connections, to track them down. The next thing you knew, Theresa was found to be an unfit mother and told if she ever wanted to see her daughter again, she must seek treatment for her mental health problems. This left Kelly, who’s twelve at this point, nearly thirteen, to fend for herself against her bully of a father. Poor child.”
I waited for Richard to take his pills and sip his tea before I encouraged him to continue. “Did you think a twelve-year-old girl was capable of what you’re suggesting she did to her father?”
“Not immediately. Like everyone else, I assumed Edwin’s death was an accident. Deaths like his are commonplace on farms. It’s a dangerous occupation. What I’ve learned subsequently leaves me without the slightest doubt it was premeditated murder. Patricide, made to look like an accident by a young girl.”
Chapter Thirty-One
I couldn’t help wondering how Lyle’s life might have looked like had she grown up in different circumstances. Was killing her father the catalyst for what was to come? Had her father’s brutality triggered something in her? Was she a product of her early environment or was she born to kill? Did she have her father’s wickedness flowing through her veins – like father, like daughter?
Richard had no appetite and couldn’t eat. He pushed his plate away and sipped at his tea feebly. He closed his eyes and rested. I
watched his fingers tremble as he dozed, the backs of his hands bruised and blotchy.
I took the opportunity to send some text messages and read the news on my phone. When I looked up, Richard was awake and watching me. He smiled apologetically.
Dabbing the corners of his mouth with a tissue, he said, “Looking back, I remember arriving at the farm and seeing a child in complete control of her emotions. I assumed she was in shock, and the grief of what had happened to her father hadn’t sunk in.
“She was confident, and she quickly explained the events that had led to her father’s death. She did it without a moment’s hesitation or deviation. Each time, her explanation was repeated word for word. I stood back and watched her explain to fellow detectives how the farm worked, the hazards of a working farm and the steps leading up to the accident.
“I realise now that she had orchestrated everything. She was manipulating us, and because she was a child, and we couldn’t imagine a child doing such a thing, we gave her the space to do so. I know it’s an odd thing to say of a child, but that’s what I now see.”
I said, “Back then, I guess it was almost unthinkable. Sadly, times have changed.”
“Damn right they’ve changed. I don’t think I could be a detective today,” he said. I knew he didn’t mean it. He’d give almost anything to be young, fit and healthy. Back on the beat, chasing down bad guys. I bet he was one hell of a detective back in the day.
“I know she’s smart,” I said. “What can you tell me about her education?”
“What do you want to know? She was off the charts. Teachers told me she would turn up for class and breeze through lessons. The general consensus was that teachers felt what they taught was of little interest to her – because she already knew it.
“One teacher explained to me that Kelly was self-taught. She read and studied on her own time, all the time. She’d sit in lessons and read her own stuff. Advanced stuff. It was clear to the teacher that she had an insatiable appetite for knowledge, and school just didn’t offer enough.
