by Jay Gill
Emma couldn’t help but smile now and let out a little laugh. She raised her glass and said, “Cheers. But you can’t get back in my good books that easily. So don’t even try.”
Dave drank down his whisky and Emma matched him. He poured them both another.
It felt good to laugh. To hear Dave’s laugh.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Emma woke to the sound of movement in the kitchen. She looked at the clock. It was 2:30 p.m.
Her head pounded. Her mind raced back to the previous evening. ‘Dave,’ she said to herself. ‘You didn’t.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Damn. You did.’
Emma climbed out of bed and looked around for her underwear. Unable to find her clothes, she put on her dressing gown.
Feeling more than a little hungover, Emma opened the bedroom door. Dave was flicking through her collection of vinyl records. “Good morning. Afternoon, I mean. Why’d you let me sleep so late? My mouth… Urgh… I need water.”
Dave looked up, surprise and happiness on his face. “You made me jump.”
He stopped what he was doing and sidled over to Emma. He put his arms around her and gave her a few quick kisses, then slipped his hands inside her dressing gown and held her.
“Why don’t you go and take a relaxing shower?” he said. “I’ll make us both a late lunch and a gallon of tea.”
“Dave, about last night…” said Emma.
Dave said, “It was amazing. You’re amazing.”
Emma pushed away his wandering hands. “David, it was a mistake. It shouldn’t have happened.”
“What do you mean, it shouldn’t have happened?” Dave had a look of hurt on his face.
“I had too much to drink. We both did. I wasn’t thinking straight. If there is going to be an us, then we need to take it slow. Okay? Slow. Everything changed when you left.”
“You are joking, aren’t you? Last night was like the old days. You and me, Em. Why overcomplicate everything? Let’s just pick up where we left off.”
Emma closed her dressing gown and tightened the belt. “Really? You think it’s that easy? You think you can walk out on me, and just as easily walk back in?”
Dave put his hands out to hold Emma and said, “It only needs to be as difficult as we choose to make it.”
Emma took a step back.
“I think it’s best if you just leave, David. Maybe we can talk later? I just don’t know right now. I have a lot on my plate, and I feel like shit. My bloody head. Look, I’ll send you a text tomorrow. We can get a bite to eat and talk.”
Emma was looking Dave straight in the eye. Something didn’t feel right. He looked edgy.
Emma tried to look around him and over his shoulder. He playfully tried to stop her. Emma pushed past, brushing him off as she moved. She walked through the lounge, looking around and looking at Dave. She peered into the hallway, went into the kitchen, turned around and came back out again.
Looking at Dave’s body language, it was now plain to her he was up to something. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what it was. At the same time, she had to know. Emma looked left and right, then looked at Dave. His eyes flicked towards the front door.
Emma opened the frosted glass interior door. Her heart sank. Beside the front door were Dave’s bag and a box full of his things.
“I can explain,” said Dave. “I just needed to get a few things. You said yourself, I could only stay one night. I wasn’t planning on just walking out. It looks more than it is.”
“Leave. Just get your stuff and go.”
“Look, Em, it isn’t what you think. You’re overreacting.”
“Just get the fuck out. I never want to see your lying face again. Go back to whoever it is you’re screwing. I really couldn’t care less. The poor bitch can have you.”
“Fine. Screw you. Oh, I did. Last night. And you know what, Emma? You really are a piece of work. You really are one uptight, boring bitch. And that’s the truth. Ever heard of fun?”
“Really? So that’s what you really think of me. The truth is out.”
“You want to know another truth? It’s Rebecca. Yes, I’ve been screwing Rebecca Wild behind your back for months. She might be a mistake – I don’t know yet – but at least she knows how to have a good time, in and out of the sack. You wouldn’t know how to have a good time if it hit you in the face and screamed ‘Good time!’”
In the background, Emma’s phone started ringing.
“Just wait there one second, Dave,” hissed Emma.
“Got to get your phone, have you? Christ almighty, we can’t even have an argument without being interrupted by your work.”
“Forget the phone,” said Emma, rounding on him. “You were telling me that while you and I were planning our wedding, you were sleeping with another woman.”
Dave swallowed hard, took a step back and looked for the front door.
“Do you remember, David, that your golf clubs are under the stairs? Just wait there one second while I go get one. An eight iron can do a lot of damage to the human body.” Emma had no intention of using a golf club on him, but it had the impact she was hoping for.
Dave scrambled for the front door. He jammed bags and boxes under his arms and ran for his car. He opened the boot, threw in the bags and boxes and jumped into the front seat.
Emma came marching out with a golf club over her shoulder.
“Goodbye, Emma,” panted Dave. “I’ll let you get back to playing cops and robbers. I know it’s all you’re interested in.”
He rammed the car into gear and peeled away.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Unable to sleep, I left the house before anyone was up. Kelly Lyle was keeping me awake at night. She had forced me to get involved in her game, yet I had no idea why. Was it just for kicks? Was it a challenge? Or was there a motive at play I didn’t see yet?
I wasn’t surprised to see Cotton’s car already in the carpark when I arrived. I’d heard from Etheridge that Cotton had a reputation for being first in and last out.
I got buzzed in and made my way along the beige corridors. The sights, smell and sounds took me back to Scotland Yard.
I leaned in through Cotton’s open door. “Knock, knock,” I said. I held up two cups of Costa coffee and a bag of pastries. “Supplies?”
“Great to see you, come in. Anyone bearing pastries is welcome in my office.” Cotton looked tired, but she managed a smile.
I passed Cotton a coffee and the whole bag of pastries. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” I said.
Cotton leaned back in her creaky chair and looked around as though for the first time in a long time.
I noticed a photo frame face down on Cotton’s desk. When she thought I wasn’t looking, she slid it into a drawer.
Cotton said, “I think I got put in here to keep me out of the way. It’s nothing special, but it’s my home from home. I put in for some chintz curtains but I’m still waiting, and as for the crystal chandelier, it turns out there’s a waiting list.”
“Shame,” I said. “Chintz and a crystal chandelier always add an air of romance to any investigation.”
Cotton laughed, and her mood lightened. She had a pretty smile. Not for the first time, I wished she’d smile more often. I’d heard from Etheridge that Cotton was a bit of a loner in the office. She was well liked, but she kept herself to herself and focused on her work. I’d seen it before, and my guess was Cotton felt she had a lot to prove. In time, I hoped that would change for her.
“They’re working on getting us a bigger office,” said Cotton, “one we can both work in.”
I looked around her cramped workspace, “Good idea.”
Said Cotton, “Where would you like to start?”
I took a sip of coffee and said, “I read through all the files you left me over the past few months. I’ll need access to everything else. I couldn’t identify a pattern with the victims,” I said.
Cotton got to her feet. “The only thing that connects these vict
ims is Lyle and a Scrabble piece. They’re different ages, ethnicity, backgrounds, sexual orientation and genders. Ages range from nineteen to fifty-eight. All either had an accompanying Scrabble piece left at the scene or inserted into them. Six victims. Six letters.”
Emma spread out well-worn photographs on her desk showing the letters, T, C, H, I, R, R.
I looked over the images and, thinking out loud, 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?”
Emma pointed to photos on her white-board. 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 interrupted.
I’d seen pictures in the newspaper, and now 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 letter R, Lee Nunn.”
Officers had established Lee 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, “Lee 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 Etheridge?”
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.
Added Cotton, “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 both sipped coffee 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 on something important?”
“Like what? Lyle hasn’t hidden the fact she’s the killer. Quite the contrary – it feels like from the very beginning Lyle 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 couldn’t 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 Monica standing barefoot in the kitchen clutching the phone, Sandy by her side, looking up with 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 called 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 this,” 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, honestly, “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 traditiona
l English cottage garden style. In truth, the garden is 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 impressive,” I said.
Flo took off her gloves and tucked them in her back pocket. “I could talk about the garden 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
Retired detective Richard Oatridge showered and joined Flo and me in the garden for a light dinner. As he appeared from the house, I got to my feet and put out my hand to shake his. He walked slowly and 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.
