The Couple on Cedar Close

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  ‘Now I really am going to kiss you!’ I say aloud.

  Thirty-One

  The CCTV from Cedar Close on the day and night of the murder has thrown up the princely sum of sweet FA. Apparently, the Lewises’ CCTV wasn’t working and those houses where CCTV was operational were positioned in such a way as to be unable to get a direct line of vision to the Millses’ property. Brilliant. There is, however, a bit of development on the power cut.

  ‘The switch tripped,’ the electrician informs me in a throaty cockney accent, seemingly thrilled to be able to impart his expertise and contribute to a murder enquiry. ‘Although it’s possible it tripped itself out, it’s unlikely. Nuffink wrong with the electrics in the gaff – not long been rewired by the looks of it. Someone would’ve had to have manually gone to the box and flipped the switch.’

  ‘So, there’s no way of knowing if it tripped itself or if someone tripped it manually?’

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ the sparky says. ‘I can’t say for sure either way.’

  Double brilliant. The results on the knife have come back as suspected, and no doubt in Delaney’s case, as hoped. Laurie Mills’ dabs were found on it, alongside some of her blood and the victim’s.

  I impart the good news to Woods after he collars me on my way out. There’s only so many times I can limbo past his office and get away with it.

  Woods appears happy as I give him the forensic feedback. ‘This is good news, isn’t it, Riley? That’ll be enough to charge the wife now. Motive, fingerprints… Her alibi isn’t even watertight. Get her in again, see if you can get a confession and get the job done.’

  I haven’t told him about Vic Leyton’s shocker yet; I’ve saved the best til last. ‘Sir, I think you should know that there’s been some new developments.’

  ‘Developments?’ Woods looks up from his desk sharply. I can tell he doesn’t like the sound of that.

  ‘Time of death,’ I explain. ‘Initially it was thought that it occurred somewhere between 8 and 10 p.m., given the body temperature at the scene.’

  Woods has fixed me with a stoic glare. He knows that I know he isn’t going to like this because it will mean that I’m right and that this case is more complex than he’d like it to be. I find it perplexing, almost amusing, that a man with his service history appears to get cross when a case doesn’t quite pan out how he wants it to. He wants Laurie Mills to be the killer because that makes things a whole lot easier, for him at least. It wraps things up quickly. It’s a fast result. It’s numbers on paper. It’s good for business. ‘Only it transpires that Vic Leyton was mistaken.’

  ‘Vic Leyton doesn’t make mistakes,’ he snaps dismissively, as if I’m deliberately trying to throw a spanner in the works.

  ‘It was an easy one to make, apparently. Because whoever killed our Mr Mills attempted to keep the body warm. They found blanket fibres on him, sir. After the full autopsy, it was determined that ETD was in fact more like between 1 and 2 p.m. The time on the watch that was found on his body was recorded as 1.39 p.m.’

  Woods looks positively vexed now, as if I have really gone and pissed on his fireworks.

  ‘It smashed when he fell, most likely. I’m pretty sure it’s safe to assume that’s the time it stopped working.’

  ‘So, what does this mean exactly?’

  I cough into my fist, clear my throat. ‘It means, sir, that at the time of death, Laurie Mills was on her way to a hair appointment at a salon called Harrisons on the high street and that there are witnesses, plus CCTV, to corroborate this.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ He rubs his temples with a thumb and forefinger. ‘Are you absolutely sure, Riley?’

  I open my palms. ‘I’m not the expert, sir. Vic Leyton is and—’ I cough again, though largely for effect, adding, ‘as you’ve just said, Vic Leyton doesn’t make mistakes.’

  Woods’ eyes narrow a touch. He looks like he wants to combust. ‘Bloody brilliant. I was hoping to give the Super some good news as well.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I say, adding, ‘there’s something else.’

  ‘Go on,’ Woods sighs.

  ‘Semen.’

  ‘Semen?’

  ‘Yes. They found semen on Mills’ body, and some other as-yet-unknown DNA. It’s off for testing, sir. Looks like Mr Mills engaged in some kind of sexual activity closely preceding his death.’

  ‘The wife?’

  I shrug. ‘The results will tell us if it was, sir. But I’m pretty sure that whoever Robert Mills had the pleasure with is the person we’re looking for.’

  ‘Definitely a woman then?’

  ‘Most likely,’ I say. ‘Although it appears Mr Mills was more of a quantity rather than quality kind of man. We’re following up all other leads, all lines of enquiry.’

  ‘What other bloody leads are there, Riley?’ The veins in Woods’ neck are protruding slightly and I feel a flutter of guilt that perhaps somewhat childishly I can’t help getting off on his discomfort.

  ‘Robert Mills wasn’t the faithful sort,’ I say, ‘and that’s an understatement. There were more aside from the mistress. There’s the possibility of a husband, a jealous boyfriend, even a spurned lover… We will be speaking with Laurie Mills again, of course.’

  He rubs his chin thoughtfully. ‘I still think the wife is in on this somehow, Riley. You’re not the only one who possesses this “magical” intuition you know. I can feel it.’

  He’s upset. Oh dear.

  ‘And I don’t want you taking Davis when you speak with the wife. Go with Delaney.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘You’re taking Martin and that’s that. He’s your number two, Riley – treat him as such. You might find he responds better to you if you do.’

  If I was a betting man I’d put money on the fact that Delaney has been in here whingeing to Woods about me. He’s just the sort. A snitch.

  ‘Yes, well, he could be helpful, I suppose,’ I say, quietly adding, ‘especially on understanding the mind of a womaniser.’

  The narrow eyes are back. ‘What was that, Riley?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Don’t let things get personal, Riley. Remember what happened last time.’

  ‘It’s okay, sir,’ I reassure him. ‘Delaney’s not my type.’

  Woods shoots me a look of contempt. ‘You know what I mean, Riley – don’t try to be clever.’

  ‘I never try, sir. It just comes naturally.’

  ‘The wife is the key to all of this somehow. So go and unpick some locks.’

  Great analogy, I think. But I don’t say it. I can see he’s not in the mood and respectively I’m in no mood for his sharp side.

  ‘Pick some locks… yes, sir.’ I suddenly catch the time on Woods’ large wall clock. It’s 1.20 p.m. I said I’d meet Fi for drink in the Hart and I’m already late. Shit.

  Thirty-Two

  Kiki – August 1996

  ‘Please, please,’ she’s begging him as they attempt to pull her into the car, ‘don’t let them do this, Bertie. Don’t let them take me away, please!’

  ‘Get in the car, you little slut!’ Her mother attempts to push her into the back of the vehicle but she struggles.

  ‘Fuck you, you fucking bitch!’ she screams at her. ‘Get your hands off me.’

  ‘You’re the devil’s work, my girl, from conception, born wicked and evil. Well, you won’t be sinning under my roof any longer, you filthy whore! Get in the car!’

  But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t be sent to some boarding school run by nuns out in the middle of nowhere, hundreds of miles away from the only person she had ever loved, or been loved by.

  ‘You can separate us but you’ll never keep us apart! Never!’ she spits in her mother’s face. She looks up towards the window at Bertie with pleading eyes.

  ‘It’s okay, kiddo,’ he calls down to her. ‘It’s all going to be okay.’

  He had promised her that he would be back for her, that once the dust had settled he would come and get her out o
f there, that they would find a place together, be together. ‘All the time you’re underage, I can’t do anything,’ he’d said. ‘But the day you turn sixteen is the day I will be waiting for you outside that school with the engine of my sports car running.’

  Kiki had laughed through her tears. What would she do without her blanket, without Bertie? She’d be alone again and she was scared.

  ‘Promise me,’ she screams back. ‘Promise me you’ll come for me.’

  * * *

  ‘What on earth is going on out there?’ the girl behind him asks, moving towards the window. ‘Some kind of domestic?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he explains, playfully pushing her back down onto the bed. ‘My mum’s going to be gone a while,’ he says, raising an eyebrow, which she reciprocates. ‘She’s taking my sister to her new school… we’ve got the afternoon to ourselves.’

  ‘Hmm, what will we do?’ the girl asks provocatively. Her parents aren’t expecting her back for a good few hours. She’d told them she was going to the lido with a group of girlfriends. They’d have had a complete fit if they knew she was here alone, with a boy.

  He smirks. ‘I’m sure we’ll come up with something.’

  ‘She seems upset, your sister—’

  He smiles. ‘Don’t worry about her—’

  Kiki calls his name out again as her mother physically forces her inside the vehicle.

  ‘Please! Please! No! Bertie!’

  He peers out of the window, watching as she is physically restrained and pushed into the car, fighting and screaming like a tiger. The girl, Justine, peers out of the window to have a look too.

  ‘Don’t let them see you!’ he hisses at her and she jumps.

  ‘Alright! Keep your wig on, mate!’

  He looks down at her from the window, blows her a kiss and mouths the words, ‘I love you, Kiki.’

  ‘I love you too,’ she mouths back to him as the car screeches away.

  Thirty-Three

  I burst through the doors of the White Hart like I’m Clint Eastwood in a western and scan the pub for Fiona. It’s 1.45 p.m. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see her towards the back of the pub. She’s standing, gathering her belongings and throwing her bag over her shoulder ready to leave.

  ‘Fi!’ I call out to her as I make my way over, my face a mask of apology. At least I hope it is. ‘Fi, I am so sorry.’ I shake my head. ‘Woods collared me just as I was about to leave.’

  She wants to look cross but doesn’t quite get there.

  ‘Forgive me? Let me get you a drink, please. Glass of red, yeah? Merlot.’

  She stalls for a couple of seconds, which feel longer, and then takes her bag off her shoulder. ‘Oh, go on then,’ she acquiesces, retaking her seat. ‘But I haven’t got long now.’

  I order two large glasses of red from the bar and hurriedly bring them back to the table. Seeing Fi in close proximity again, I wonder what on earth I’ve been thinking. I must need my head examining. She looks lovely. I think she may have done something new to her hair, although I’m not stupid enough to ask. It’s good to see her again.

  ‘I thought I’d been ghosted, Dan,’ she says, as I touch the rim of my glass with hers.

  ‘Ghosted? Is that some kind of street-speak I’m not down with?’

  She cocks her head to one side. ‘I thought you’d disappeared on me. Didn’t have you down as the love ’em and leave ’em type.’

  I have the good grace to feel ashamed and I take another large sip of red. ‘Listen, Fi, it’s not…’

  ‘Oh God! Please don’t say “it’s not you, it’s me”! Spare me that, Dan, at least!’ She’s still smiling.

  ‘No! No… I was going to say…’ Actually, I have no idea what I was going to say. I haven’t had time to think about it. I decide upon the truth, but even then, I’m not entirely sure what that is now that I’m sitting opposite her. ‘Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch, okay. After our… after that night together – which was lovely by the way – I just freaked out a bit. It’s been a while, you know, since Rachel and… well, I didn’t want you to think… I didn’t… I don’t…’ I can hear myself stammering and tripping over my words like a schoolboy and I want to stamp on my own foot. ‘Well, look anyway. I’m sorry. I should have contacted you. I was always going to but then the Mills case came up.’

  True to her nature I see her ears prick up. I knew that mentioning the case would pique Fi’s interest and it was a slightly calculated move on my part. I know, I know, don’t judge me. It surprises me when she takes hold of my hand. I get a waft of her perfume as she does; it’s a spicy, musky scent indicative of her.

  ‘There’s really no need to apologise, Dan,’ she says with gentle earnest. Her face is closer to mine now. ‘It was a beautiful night, really lovely. I will never forget it. And I was honoured that it was me – you know, the first woman since Rachel. I understand, Dan, honestly. We both know what it was, two friends who needed each other just for the night. I knew you weren’t looking for anything more and neither was I. I wasn’t waiting on a marriage proposal, but, well, a phone call or a text would’ve been nice. It’s fine, really. I just hope it hasn’t spoilt our friendship, that’s all.’

  Although these are exactly the same sentiments as my own, I suddenly feel a little, well, put out, I suppose, that Fi doesn’t seem to want to take anything further, or isn’t even interested in a repeat performance by the sounds of things. And there I was, cocky bastard, worrying about what to say, how to say it and trying to work out how I feel, when all the time she had me down as a one-night stand anyway!

  ‘Right… yes… well, I feel the same, exactly.’

  Fi pats my hand and takes a sip of wine. ‘Well, now we’ve got that out of the way,’ she says, moving swiftly on, ‘talk to me about the Mills case.’

  I’m a little stunned. Now that she’s told me she doesn’t want anything more, I kind of feel like maybe I do. Or maybe I just want her to want something more and feel a bit rejected. I subconsciously rub my head. I’m not used to all this, second-guessing a woman. It had been so straightforward with Rach, no ambiguity: she liked me, she wanted me; I liked her, I wanted her. The second we slept together it was fireworks and all systems go, no looking back, no discussion. The thought that I may never again feel that way with a woman, nor any woman with me by the sounds of things, makes me feel a bit depressed. But I guess once you’ve had perfection it’s difficult to replicate it. Fiona will never be Rachel. No one will be.

  Just one night. Fi’s words resound in my head.

  ‘Ah, so that’s why you held on for me, is it?’

  She gives me a look of mock disapproval. ‘C’mon, Dan. You know me better than that.’

  Well, I thought I did. But now I’m not sure what I know, or what’s what.

  ‘It sounds particularly gruesome,’ Fi says, pulling a face. ‘There’d be a lot less men in the world if every wife slit their cheating husband’s throat. And you’re sure the wife’s the only one in the frame?’

  ‘Well, this pub would probably be empty for starters,’ I say, and she laughs. ‘But actually it’s not quite as cut and dried as you might think. Pardon the pun.’

  ‘Oh?’ Fi’s eyes are shining. Now she wants to know me. I realise I’m being stupid and childish and I feel cross with myself. She’s a journalist. Of course she wants to know.

  ‘Yes, well, you also know me better than that, Fiona,’ I say. ‘I can’t give too much away at this stage.’

  She looks visibly disappointed. Much more so than she did at the thought of never going to bed with me again.

  ‘We ran the story a couple of days ago,’ she says. ‘Seemed like a cut and dry to me at first. Cheating husband, jealous wife out for revenge. You released her without charge though? She won’t talk to us. Won’t say a word. That friend of hers, Monica Lewis, has made sure our lot can’t get within ten feet of her.’

  ‘She has a pretty cast-iron alibi at the time of death,’ I say, candidly.

>   ‘Really, that’s interesting.’

  ‘Yes. And it’s also not public information. Not yet anyway.’

  ‘Okay. Well, quid pro quo, Detective. You might be interested in speaking to a Leanna George though.’

  ‘The name rings a bell.’

  ‘She came to us after we ran the story and did an interview with the mistress – Claire Wright, is it?’

  ‘Yes, Wright, that’s her name.’

  Fi smiles. ‘Well, we’re running Leanna’s story tomorrow.’

  ‘Her story? She came to the press?’

  ‘She sure did. Leanna George was another of Robert Mills’ mistresses. Or at least she was for a time. He was certainly a busy boy, wasn’t he? Well, she has plenty to say about your “victim”, put it that way. Seems he wasn’t entirely everything he appeared to be.’

  I’m intrigued. ‘You think she’s a potential suspect?’

  Fi shrugs. ‘Seems unlikely his killer would come directly to us.’

  ‘It’s not unheard of,’ I say. ‘You know that.’

  She shakes her head. ‘No. This was to set the record straight,’ she explains. ‘After we ran the initial story, we did a follow-up, got some quotes from various colleagues and friends and whatnot. They painted a picture of Robert Mills as this fun-loving, cool, creative type who everybody thought highly of. You know, a hard-working, easy-going, likeable guy whose life fell apart after his wife lost their babies in a tragic accident and then fell into the arms of another woman to cope with the pain.’

  ‘That’s not chronologically correct,’ I say. ‘His wife lost the babies when she discovered he’d fallen into the arms of another woman.’

  Fi gives a knowing nod. ‘Well, Leanna George puts the cat among the pigeons. The picture she paints is of a serial cheat and pathological liar. She claims Robert Mills was a misogynistic abuser, with a particularly vicious, vengeful streak in him. Reckons he had it coming in spades.’

  ‘Does she now?’ This is interesting because in my experience, people don’t tend to speak ill of the dead, even if the deceased was a complete bastard when they were living. At least not so soon after they’ve been savagely murdered, and certainly not publicly, to the press no less. It never reflects well. So Leanna George clearly has a serious cross to bear, one she’s prepared to go out on a limb over. I need to speak to her. Urgently.