Hard Truth

by Jay Gill

  “She sounds like she must be a saint; I’d like to meet her.”

  “Next time I see her I’ll mention it.”

  Monica gave me a playful prod before wrapping her arms around my shoulders and kissing me. Down on the beach, we could both see Alice and Faith looking mortified at what they’d consider our gross display of affection. It made us laugh, so we played along. Holding her in my arms, I tilted Monica backwards and kissed her passionately. Looking up at me with smiling eyes, Monica lifted a leg for extra effect. Though we couldn’t hear it, we could see Alice and Faith’s embarrassment as they gasped and screamed in horror. They ran along the beach to put as much distance as they could between them and us. Laughing and kissing, we held the pose for as long as we could before laughter got the better of us and we had to stop.

  Joking over, we continued the walk, and Monica asked, “Do you miss it? Being a homicide detective?”

  “Not one bit,” I answered without hesitation.

  Monica said nothing. Instead, she looked at me in the way she does when she needs convincing. “I’ve found it more difficult than I was expecting, that’s all,” I added. “I don’t mean stepping away from active duty. I mean emotionally. The darkness of the cases must have got to me more than I realised.”

  Monica looked down at the ground. “How do you feel now?”

  “It’s as if I’m punching through the darkness and seeing the light and feeling the warmth of it for the first time in a long time.”

  Monica lifted her head and looked at me. “You never told me that.”

  “I wasn’t sure how to put it into words until now.”

  “Do you think the lecturing and consulting work will be enough?”

  “Enough? Yes, it’s good money. And the advance on my book was a nice surprise.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “I know.”

  This conversation had been brewing for a while, and Monica wasn’t going to let me off the hook that easily.

  “You’re a detective,” said Monica, “We both know you’re one of the best in the country. I know it’s sometimes dangerous. I know you’ve almost died on more than one occasion. I also know you’ve given it all up for us, Alice and Faith especially. I understand all that. And going back to pursuing psychopaths is the last thing I want. I want you here, with me, safe. You know I do. But I’m also worried about what it’ll do to you. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but over the years to come. I’m worried some regret will eat away at you. I just don’t see how you can simply stop being what you were clearly meant to be.”

  “I didn’t know you felt that way,” I said.

  Monica said, “I’m not sure how I feel. I don’t want you dying at the hands of some crackpot killer, but I also know what you’ve given up for me is a part of who you are. I suppose I want to make sure you’re content.”

  “Every day people have a change of lifestyle. That’s all this is. The way I see it is that I’m still catching the bad guys. The only difference is that I’m doing it by educating other detectives. I’m teaching them what I’ve learned so that I don’t have to be out there.”

  “What about these local murders? That young detective, Cotton, implied you know the killer. Is that why she leaves the files?”

  “She’s young and ambitious. I’ve spoken to her boss again. She won’t be doing that anymore.”

  A mobile phone started to ring, and instinctively I reached into my pocket. Monica waved her phone at me. The call was for her. Old habits die hard, and receiving emergency calls was something I still expected.

  I left Monica chatting to a girlfriend. I ran down on to the beach to search for shells with Alice and Faith.

  “Daddy! We’re looking for treasure,” said Faith. “These shells, the pearly ones, are what we need.”

  “We’re going to make a mosaic with them for Nana Hardy.”

  “She’ll love that. Let’s see how many we can find.”

  Monica’s words buzzed around my brain, and I swiped them away. Looking back, I could see how far down the rabbit hole I’d fallen and the mistakes I’d made. I was a different person now. I had to be.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The driveway was empty. Cotton parked the car across the street and watched the house for any sign of someone being home. It was a hot and humid day, and all the windows were closed. If Hardy or Monica were home, then at least one window would be open.

  She checked her watch. Three-fifty p.m. She’d sat there forty minutes. “Christ’s sake. Go get a sandwich and come back in an hour,” she told herself out loud.

  The bakery had a small seating area, and Cotton sat alone and sipped her coffee. She wetted her finger and picked up the last few crumbs of chocolate cake. She sucked her finger. She was tempted to get another slice.

  Two teenage girls came in and ordered caramel choux buns. Their uniforms told her they were from the local grammar school. It got Cotton thinking about the choices she’d made since leaving school. She’d always wanted to be a police officer, in particular a detective. Her parents had tried to persuade her to go into medicine, but it held no appeal. All those years ago this wasn’t how she had pictured her life: working every hour, jilted just weeks before her wedding day, avoiding her mother and with only a cat for company.

  What was she doing here? Did she really think she could persuade a man like James Hardy to do anything? To him, she must look like a woman obsessed. Leave the poor man alone, she told herself. Did she really think she could ask him to get involved in the Lyle investigation? The man had decided to leave active policing for good reason. Who did she think she was even to try to change that? Was she doing it for the sake of the victims or for her own benefit? There was no denying she wanted to work with him. If he wouldn’t help now, he never would. This was her final attempt. How should she approach it? If she came at him head-on, he’d back off again for sure.

  It was just after 5.30 p.m. when she parked outside the Hardy house for a second time that day. This time the family car was in the driveway, and the doors and boot were open. She watched for a moment. They’d been to the beach. Monica was the first to spot her. She watched as Monica spoke to Hardy. Cotton realised she didn’t feel guilt at being there; she felt determination.

  Monica looked over again, and Cotton offered a smile and lifted a tentative hand to wave. Lifting a cool-box out of the boot, Monica then called the girls to her and ushered them inside. Alice looked back over her shoulder at her dad and then at the stranger in the car, while the younger one was clearly asking Monica lots of questions. Monica kept them moving.

  Hardy didn’t look over as Cotton approached. Instead, he shook and beat the car mats to get the sand off. He then started pulling together the last few items left in the car.

  Cotton stood beside the car and watched Hardy’s hands as he reached for two small brightly coloured buckets full of shells. She wondered if she should speak first, perhaps offer to help. She didn’t know the right words or even where to start. Instead, she stared at the sand, which would be impossible to remove from the inside of the car completely.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I’ve been expecting you,” I said without looking up. “I’m sorry to hear about Etheridge. I liked him.” Cotton’s bright eyes fixed on mine, and I wondered what she was thinking. Did she blame me for Etheridge’s death? If she did, I wouldn’t entirely blame her. I know I blamed myself more than a little.

  Etheridge and I had spoken a lot over the last few months, and I’d got to know him well. He was going through a rough patch. As well as the multiple murder investigation, which was chewing away at him, he’d opened up about his marriage break-up and his financial circumstances, which weren’t great due to a house he’d only partially built and no longer had any passion for completing. Somehow, we always managed to find some light during our conversations together. We laughed, told stories and filled his bin with a considerable number of empty beer bottles.

 
He’d also talked about the rising star in his department, who stood beside me now. He told me Cotton was going to be a great detective. She was sharp, dedicated, with instincts that couldn’t be taught and which all the best detectives had.

  Cotton was unaware of our friendship. Etheridge had asked I keep our conversations private and I saw no reason to betray that trust now. If anyone asked, we were merely two seasoned homicide detectives letting off steam and throwing around theories. I was going to miss Etheridge, and I shuddered when I thought about his final moments. No one should go out like that.

  “You heard? He was well liked,” said Cotton. “This has to stop.”

  I shook the sand off a tartan picnic blanket, folded it and passed it to Cotton. I piled a few things on top, then put a beach chair under each arm and closed the boot. I tucked a pink baseball cap under my chin, picked up a canvas bag I’d loaded with buckets and spades and shut the car door with my backside. “You had better come in.”

  “You’re with your family. I don’t want to intrude,” said Cotton. She knew how ridiculous that sounded. I didn’t reply. She followed me into the house.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Cotton taking in the chaos of the Hardy family home. The house was full of noise and energy, the way I liked it. With two children, their friends, a crazy dog, grandparents and neighbours in and out, there was always some excitement. Never knowing what might happen next was part of the fun and reminded me of my own childhood home.

  Upstairs I could hear Alice and Faith arguing about who was going to shower first. All the while, I could hear the shower running – by the time the decision was made, there would be no hot water left.

  Monica was also upstairs trying to calm the situation while searching for a new bottle of shampoo. I could hear Monica telling Faith that Sandy was a dog and wasn’t allowed in the shower with her. In fact, Sandy shouldn’t have been upstairs at all.

  “Take a seat,” I said. “Let me sort a few things out and then we can talk.” I loaded the washing machine with beach towels. In the kitchen sink, I rinsed sand off the girls’ beach shoes. “Have you eaten?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m fine.”

  I finished going through the beach bag and went outside the back door. I needed a few minutes to think. It was crunch time. I opened and closed the utility room door to pretend I was doing something out there. I came back into the kitchen and went upstairs to speak to Monica.

  As I came back down the stairs, Cotton was typing a message on her phone. I could see she was pretending she hadn’t been trying to hear our conversation, which had been done in hushed whispers.

  “Do you have any more case files with you? I want to see everything,” I told her.

  I looked back up the stairs to where Monica stood. She winked, tossed her hair and carried on as though nothing had changed.

  Everything had changed.

  Cotton had to fight back a huge grin. “Not with me. I can organise that.”

  “Good. Follow me. I have an office out back. You can bring me up to speed. Are you sure you’ve eaten? How about a drink? Tea? Coffee? I have some cold beers in the office fridge.”

  “Cold beer sounds good.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “First, I want you to understand my talking to you doesn’t mean I’m involved in this investigation. If I decide to get involved, and I’m not saying I will, I’ll re-examine case files and present my findings. I’ll offer my thoughts, based on my experience, for your consideration.”

  Cotton nodded.

  “If it’s critical to the investigation, I’ll sit in on interviews,” I said.

  Cotton let me talk.

  “I promised my daughters and Monica and myself I was done with it all. I have no desire to return to active duty.”

  Cotton said, “I understand. Completely.”

  I scratched the back of my head and could feel sand in my hair. I thought about Etheridge. I continued, “That said, if I have a lead that’s worth following up, I’ll check it out. I want to be able to do that. You’ll need to get that authorised.”

  Cotton made an almost inaudible ‘uh-huh’ that suggested she didn’t believe this conversation was purely theoretical. Maybe she was right. I knew all too well where all this was headed. Why else would I have let her into my office? Why else did I spend so many hours reviewing case files and pretending I didn’t? The truth was, I was hooked from the moment I saw the first body under the pier.

  Cotton said, “If we do it, we can do it on your terms. I’d just appreciate you looking over the files, that’s all. Let me know what you think. You can tell me what I missed.”

  I watched as Cotton’s greedy eyes took in the details of the room. She had the look of a child who’d just entered a magical toy shop. She didn’t know where to look first and wanted to examine everything. She pointed to a photo pinned to a map of Greater London I had fastened to a wall. “Are you working on a case? Is that your late wife?”

  I closed a file on my desk and put it away in a filing cabinet. “Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll listen to what you have to say, and then you can leave. I’ll tell you exactly what I told Etheridge: I’ve given more than my share to policing. I’ve lost too much already. I can’t lose any more.” I felt bad about what had happened to Etheridge, but it changed nothing. It only underlined my resolve to stay away from active police work.

  “You’ve lost too much? What about Etheridge? He’s lost more than anyone of us. I stuck my neck out and called you after the bodies of Martin Burke and Dylan Durrant were found under the piers. You came and took a look, no doubt tossed Etheridge some of your wisdom, then walked away. Together, you and Etheridge might have caught the killer. Etheridge might still be alive. And the families of the victims might have answers.” Cotton wasn’t shy about speaking her mind. I might have felt angry, but I admired her tenacity. “The way I see it, you are involved. You’ve always been involved. Whether you like it or not.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?” I asked. Her eyes were everywhere except on me.

  “I have a theory Kelly Lyle is killing to get your attention. I don’t know why. I don’t understand what there is between you two.” The thought made me go cold. I let her continue. “If not to get your attention, then why would she start killing here in Dorset? There is nothing that links her to this part of the country. Nothing except you. I don’t pretend to understand what she hopes to gain by doing what she’s doing. Unlike you, I’m on the outside looking in. What I do know is that the longer you leave getting involved, the more innocent people are going to lose their lives. How can you live with that and do nothing?” Cotton didn’t wait for my response. “Has Lyle contacted you?”

  I overlooked her outburst. I had a feeling it had been building for quite some time. It was better it was out in the open. I answered the last question. “She sends me a postcard from time to time. The last one was from Italy. Nothing on the card suggests she has anything to do with the murders. No bragging or brinkmanship. I pass the cards on to Etheridge.”

  “What do you make of the Scrabble pieces?”

  “They are new. As far as I’m aware, she’s never left anything similar at a crime scene before. They could be a red herring. They could be a game that we don’t understand yet. They could be misdirection. They could be anything her mind wants them to be.”

  “Is she crazy?”

  “How would you categorise crazy?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. How about stripping a middle-aged man naked then tying him to a pillar beneath a pier before cutting his stomach wide open to reveal his guts. Then leaving him to either drown from the rising tide or bleed to death.” Cotton watched my reaction. She was testing me. Etheridge was right: she was tougher than I’d first given her credit for. I could almost picture him looking down and saying with a laugh, ‘Good luck, buddy. She’s your problem now.’

  “You don’t need to tell me what she’s capable of. And no. She isn’t crazy in the way you mean. She�
�s complex. She is not a standard serial killer in that there is no pattern to who she kills or how she kills them. She does not fall into the most common definition of psychopath; she shows signs of empathy for a select few. She’s possibly the smartest multiple-killer I’ve come across. She is very much in control of both herself and her environment. Which is how she’s evading arrest.”

  “You’ve studied her?”

  “That’s my job.” I corrected myself. “That was my job.”

  Cotton reached into her thin jacket and pulled out an evidence bag. She showed it to me. “The inscription on the back had us stumped for a while. It was on Etheridge’s wrist. I’m guessing the watch belongs to you and is part of Lyle’s game?”

  The glass was damaged, and the watch was dirty looking. I recognised it immediately as a gift and knew without looking what the inscription read: Forever, Love Helena.

  “Helena is my late wife.” I felt like my heart was being crushed as I held the watch in my hand again. Memories of Helena flooded back. Her smile as she watched me unwrap the watch on my birthday. “I thought I’d lost it when we moved from London. I can’t tell you how much it means to get this back.”

  “Why did you tell Etheridge to consider Kelly Lyle as a suspect? How do we know I haven’t wasted all these months investigating the wrong person?”

  I was pleased Etheridge had taken my advice and kept my theory from his team. I perched on the edge of my desk while Emma sat in my tattered old comfy ‘thinking’ chair. It had been a battle getting permission to bring the chair with me from London, but after some tough negotiations with Alice and Faith, they had allowed it into our new home.

  “I encountered Kelly Lyle, the Mentor, during a separate investigation into a serial killer called Simon Baker. I had no idea who or what she was at the time. It wasn’t until much later that I discovered her involvement in that and many other cases. As I said, she’s complex.”