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Hard Truth

Page 10

by Jay Gill


  “I will,” I said. The bedside clock showed it was just past midnight. “I won’t be far behind you. Just one thing.”

  “What?”

  “I need you to call the university and get me in front of the person in charge, probably the chancellor.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Tell them it’s a murder enquiry. I need to see all they have on Kelly Lyle and another former student. . .” I flicked through the papers strewn on the bed. “Here it is: Jacob Gregory. If they put up resistance, threaten them with a warrant. And if you have to you could suggest you’ll make their life hell by arriving with a team of detectives to turn the place upside down.”

  “Goodnight, Hardy.”

  “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

  “Yes, I’ll do it. Goodnight,” Cotton said with exasperation.

  The call ended, and I punched the air.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I arrived on campus early and headed straight to the office building. I was quickly informed I wouldn’t be able to see the chancellor but that the vice-chancellor, Sir Martin Arnez, was expecting me.

  “Come in, Detective,” said Arnez. He put out his thin hand, which I shook. “Take a seat. I’ve asked Mrs Julia McKiernan to join us,” he said. “Julia is our head of HR. She’ll be taking notes of our conversation. I’m sure you understand.”

  Julia smiled and turned to the first page of a new notepad. I guessed she was in her early sixties. She wore navy trousers and a jacket that looked tailored. Her hair was short and dark, and flattered her petite features.

  Speaking to both Julia and Arnez, I said, “Of course. You understand the conversation can go no further than the three of us. My being here is part of an ongoing murder investigation.”

  “My lips are sealed,” said Arnez. He pretended to zip his lips closed with finger and thumb the way a child might.

  Julia studied my reaction. I had a feeling she missed very little of what went on within these grounds.

  “I’m not entirely sure how I can help,” Arnez went on. “You see, this ‘incident’ between Miss Allerton and Master Gregory was before my time.”

  I’d learned from Richard’s case files that Kelly Lyle had taken her mother’s maiden name of Allerton while at university.

  “It was also before the time of the current chancellor,” Arnez continued. “Unfortunately, the very person who might have known a little more, my predecessor, has sadly passed away.

  “The whole misunderstanding between the couple in question was, of course, handled most professionally and delicately by the police. They understood the need for discretion in this distasteful matter and acted accordingly. You see, the university itself had very little to do with the events that took place. Events that eventually became something of a tragedy for all involved, but have long since been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. It seems you’re rather late to the party, as it were. It appears, therefore, you’ve had a rather wasted journey. We’ve really put the whole sorry matter behind us and moved on. It’s sometimes best to let sleeping dogs lie. Don’t you think?”

  I let his words hang in the air and waited until Julia finished scratching with her pen. I was more than a little angry at this guy’s attitude. I was used to uncooperative witnesses, but this guy took the biscuit.

  Julia coughed gently and shifted in her seat, her eyes moving between Arnez and me, like a boxing referee.

  “Mr Arnez, let me see if I understand you correctly,” I said coldly. “Am I right in thinking, Mr Arnez, that the university’s position is that it would rather not discuss the rape of one of its female students?”

  Arnez placed the expensive-looking fountain pen he’d been playing with down on his desk. He cleared his throat and then blurted, “This is not kindergarten. We cannot monitor and are not responsible for everything that goes on here between students.”

  I ignored him. “A gifted young woman was attacked, beaten and raped while on your campus. An aspiring student full of promise was left shattered and scarred while on your grounds. Betrayed by a fellow student.”

  “You’ve got this all wrong,” insisted Arnez.

  I steamed on. “And your attitude is that it isn’t the university’s responsibility to ensure adequate precautions are taken to ensure every student’s safety.”

  “That isn’t what I said at all. It wasn’t like that,” insisted Arnez. “You’re misinterpreting events.”

  I spoke over top of him. “A student at your institution was scarred both physically and mentally. Scars that she’ll carry with her for life. Scars that will dictate the course of her life.”

  “You don’t know that,” protested Arnez.

  “I do know that. And you want to bury what happened. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I think you’re being more than a little unreasonable. I mean to say – ” Arnez raised his voice and repeatedly tapped his finger on the desk. “Kelly Allerton was a problem before she ever arrived here. We should never have accepted her. But we did. We offered her a place, despite having reservations, and look what happened.”

  Julia stopped writing.

  I waited for Arnez to calm himself. I spoke soothingly now. “She’s to blame?”

  “Not entirely, of course.”

  “Are there any members of staff here who were here at the time of the assault? The truth, please. I’d rather not find out later and have to come back.”

  Arnez sipped a glass of water. His slender hands were trembling. “That’s what I’m saying to you, Detective. There is no one here from that far back. It was over twenty years ago.” He stretched his neck and cleared his throat. His discomfort was plain to see. We both now knew the university’s position on what happened. He looked between Julia and me, wondering whether to say more.

  “Well, it seems you are correct: I had a wasted trip,” I said abruptly. “I apologise for taking up your time.”

  I got to my feet, shook Arnez’s moist hand and waited for him to show me out. Julia closed her notebook and got to her feet.

  “I am truly sorry we couldn’t assist more,” said Arnez. “We take all crime very seriously. Especially crimes of this nature. It’s just that it happened so long ago.”

  “You’ve been more helpful than you realise. Just one more thing before I go,” I said, as if it had just occurred to me.

  Arnez flinched.

  “A large donation was paid to the university at the time of the assault. The university’s financial records show a gift of seventy-five thousand pounds was made by Charles Gregory.”

  “I would have to check that,” muttered Arnez.

  I pulled out a sheet of paper showing the transaction and held it towards him. He smiled weakly as he put on his reading glasses and examined the printout.

  “Ah, yes. From what I understand, Mr Gregory was a very generous donor – we have many donors who contribute to the university’s welfare. It’s not unusual to receive large sums such as this.”

  I said, “Considering the timing of this donation, can you see how the payment might be construed as an incentive to sweep the allegations against his son under the carpet?”

  Arnez spoke calmly. “I see what you’re getting at. The timing is a little unfortunate. You’d have to speak to Charles Gregory to be sure, but I think at the time he expected the whole debacle to blow over. That it was nothing more than a lovers’ tiff. The gift was a kind of compensation for any inconvenience caused to the university.”

  Julia stiffened at these words.

  “A lovers’ tiff, you say,” I repeated.

  This appeared to be another example of Kelly bearing the brunt of the abuse of male power. It was more likely the money was to ensure the allegations were dropped. I’d need to check to be sure.

  Julia showed me out. She seemed in a hurry. At first, I thought she was keen to get me far away from the bumbling Arnez, but then she asked me to wait while she checked her computer. I took a seat outside her office. She returned a few
minutes later.

  “Goodbye, Detective Hardy,” she whispered as she discreetly passed me a folded slip of paper.

  Once in my car, I unfolded the note. It was an address in Majorca, Spain, for Mr and Mrs Charles Gregory, the parents of the young man charged with beating and raping Kelly Lyle.

  It looked like I was going to need to pack a few things and catch a flight.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Emma Cotton sat alone at her desk checking notes, cross-referencing names, facts and interview notes and catching up with her correspondence. It was dark outside, and she should have gone home hours ago.

  She forked a large portion of chicken chow mein into her mouth before running her finger along the seal of an envelope and pulling out a letter. She read it through, then stopped chewing and reread it.

  ‘Dearest Emma,

  It appears you’re going around in circles, round and round like a child’s brightly coloured windmill.

  If you really want to play my game, you need to first look at what happened to Hardy’s wife. I need you to see the big picture. James deserves to know the truth. Only then can we take this game to a whole new level.

  All my love, Kelly L.

  P.S. Do you dream at night of being held by Hardy? Who could blame you? He’s a handsome man. If only he were single…’

  Emma turned the letter over and read the back. She jotted the numbers and letters down on a legal pad: GU851PH52.

  The loud ring of the desk phone startled her.

  “Yes?” barked Emma.

  “Bad time?” It was Hardy.

  “I’m okay.” Emma put the letter down on the desk and covered it. “Tired, I suppose. I feel like I’m going around in circles.” She blinked. That’s what Kelly Lyle thinks too.

  “That’s what these cases are like – you know that. We find a thread that takes us nowhere, so we pick another thread and follow it. If that thread also leads nowhere, we simply pick up another. We keep going one thread at a time.”

  Emma tucked the phone under her chin and tied up her hair. She asked, “Where are you?”

  “Hotel room. In the morning I’m boarding a flight to Palma, Majorca. I need to speak to a father about his dead son. It’s a long story. I’m following the thread.”

  Emma was a little surprised Hardy had chosen not to discuss his next move with her but said nothing. Instead, she said, “Don’t get used to the climate. I don’t want you staying out there.”

  Emma looked out the window at the cold, dark night and the spots of rain on the glass.

  “I won’t. I had better go I’ve got another call that I must take – someone is calling me back. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes. Go. Go take your call. I’m fine.”

  The line went dead.

  Emma picked up the letter again and considered what was being said. Lyle sure had a way of getting under your skin.

  …I need you to see the big picture. James deserves to know the truth…

  Emma started rooting around in her desk but couldn’t find what she was looking for. She went to her filing cabinet and began pulling out the drawers one at a time. “It’s got to be here somewhere.”

  She slammed the last drawer shut.

  Hands on hips, she stood in the middle of her office.

  “I know…”

  Emma pulled her chair up in front of her PC and, after a few minutes’ digging around on the internet, found what she wanted. She leaned back in her chair and reached back across her desk for her phone. She punched in the number and left a message. “This is Detective Inspector Emma Cotton. I’d like to leave a message for a Detective Rayner. I need him to call me back urgently.”

  Emma left a direct number and her mobile number and once again emphasised how important it was that Rayner call her back as soon as possible.

  Emma then did another search online for articles associated with the death of Hardy’s wife. She knew a lot about Hardy’s career and his success tracking down serial killers, but realised she knew very little about what had happened to Helena, Hardy’s late wife.

  The news articles she was able to find online gave a sensationalised perspective of her murder. The press at the time was focused on the number of street crimes and a sharp rise in violent crime overall.

  It was apparent a lot of the media’s focus was on the fact that if the wife of a detective chief inspector wasn’t safe, only a relatively short distance from her home, then crime on the streets of London must be out of control. And the British police force must have lost their grip.

  Later articles focused on the man who was eventually found guilty of her murder. He was a drug addict who the press named as Tony Horn. He had been sentenced to life and was to serve a minimum of 15 years.

  Emma leaned back in her chair and absently forked another huge portion of chow mein into her mouth. It was stone cold and greasy. She chewed and she thought.

  She picked up the phone again, punched in a number and chewed hard to get rid of what she had in her mouth. The phone was answered more quickly than she’d expected, and she had to swallow hard to get rid of the mouthful of food.

  “Hello, this is Detective Inspector Emma Cotton. I need to see a prisoner.” After a bit of back-and-forth, she put the phone down.

  Satisfied, Emma finished the cold chow mein and washed it down with an even colder cup of tea. She needed to look into Helena’s death quietly. She wasn’t sure how Hardy would react if he knew she was digging into his past. Yet, it was he who, only a few minutes ago, had told her to pick up a thread and follow it.

  What troubled her was that the thread was being handed to her by the killer herself.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  I felt out of place among the holiday-makers at Palma de Mallorca Airport. With my passport checked and no suitcase to collect I moved quickly through arrivals.

  Seeing excited children and exhausted parents brought back memories of a two-week holiday in Majorca when Alice and Faith were just toddlers. Where had the time gone? I made a mental note to look into bringing the girls back here as soon as possible.

  I was to be met by a driver at the airport. Outside arrivals I soon spotted Felipe holding up a piece of paper with my name on it. He was tall, casually dressed, welcoming and full of smiles.

  In a few minutes, my bag was in the boot of the car, and we were in his air-conditioned taxi heading towards the home of Charles Gregory. Outside was hot and sunny. I put on my sunglasses, sat back and gathered my thoughts.

  “Do you know Mr Gregory well?” I asked Felipe.

  “Si. Yes. I know Mr Gregory well. Mr and Mrs Gregory have met all my family. He make my children laugh and dance. My wife cook for them; she like to cook. He ask for me to drive him. I drive him. He sometime call at my home to talk and drink.”

  “It sounds like you’re good friends.”

  “I think we are friends, yes. He sometime come fishing with me on my small boat. He’s not so keen on fishing. Eating fish, yes. Fishing, not so much.” Felipe laughed and appeared to be about to launch into a story when his mobile phone rang. He started speaking Spanish to a woman who I guessed to be his wife. By the time he had finished his animated conversation, the taxi was heading up a narrow and winding road to the Gregorys’ villa.

  A Spanish woman, who introduced herself as the housekeeper, showed me to my room on arrival. I showered and changed my shirt.

  The house, with its long windows and large open rooms, sat on a hillside overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. The bright blue water below looked inviting as I stood admiring the view.

  “Please come in out of the afternoon heat, Detective. I have assumed you are thirsty and hungry, so Maria, who met you at the door, has prepared a cold lunch for us both.”

  Charles Gregory passed me a glass of iced tea and shook my hand firmly. He was friendly but didn’t smile. He was expensively dressed and well groomed. His bright blue eyes fixed on mine as he gestured towards a pair of antique leather armchairs.

/>   In the middle of the room sat a magnificent wooden dining table, its centrepiece an ornate flowerpot holding several large flowering orchids. We sat beside wooden doors in a cool and shaded part of the dining area.

  Wishing to get our conversation moving, I said, “You have a beautiful home, Mr Gregory,”

  Mr Gregory looked around and nodded. “Call me Charles. Thank you. I chose the location, designed and developed the property, but my wife is the one who made it a home. She has good taste. If I were to be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t know where to start when it comes to interior design.”

  Charles’s hesitant and fleeting smile suggested he was keen to know the reason behind my visit.

  “We get very few visitors,” he said, “and we like it that way. Naturally, I’m intrigued when a former Scotland Yard homicide detective leaves his family and endures a nearly two-hour flight to speak to me. I assume the reason must be extremely important.”

  “I don’t recall mentioning I was a homicide detective.”

  “I still have a few contacts back in the UK. We also have internet. I Googled you. You’ve worked on a lot of high-profile cases. I am, therefore, even more intrigued that, having retired, you’ve come all this way to speak to me. Have we met before? Is that it? Or do I owe you money?”

  We both laughed at his joke. I said, “You don’t owe me money. It does seem, though, that the investigating detective has been investigated.”

  I looked around the room.

  “We’re alone,” said Charles. “My wife is shopping and will not be back for a couple of hours. Maria, the housekeeper, has finished for the day. I gave her the rest of the afternoon off. You can speak freely.”

  “I am assisting a friend with her investigation,” I said.

  “Surely, Detective Hardy, you could have picked up the phone?”

  “Perhaps. My questions are of a delicate nature. I wanted to speak to you face to face.”

 

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