‘Please, Mrs Wright.’ I can hear the anguish in my own voice as I ask what I must. ‘I’m DI Riley, Dan Riley. Can you tell me what time you arrived at your daughter’s flat today?’
I don’t think she’s going to be able to speak, she’s so distraught, but admirably she gathers herself.
‘Around 10.45ish. I was on my way into work, at the hospital. I called in to check on her after a neighbour called me and said she’d heard Matty crying…’ She’s breathing heavily, her body flooded by raw anguish and adrenaline. ‘She didn’t answer my calls last night. I was worried. It’s not like her… she’s been in a terrible state, about Robert, you know since… Oh God. My baby. My babies… This isn’t happening. Someone’s murdered my girl. Oh God help me, please God help me…’
I blink back tears as Mrs Wright crumbles before me; watch her devastation unfolding in real time. I grip her hands with my own. ‘Mrs Wright,’ I say, ‘look at me, please.’
She struggles to keep her head up but eventually manages some eye contact. I stare into the woman’s watery blue eyes and see such pain and horror in them that I want to hurt someone. ‘I want to make you a promise that I will personally not rest until I find whoever did this to your daughter and granddaughter, and I will put them away for the rest of their lives. Do you understand that?’
She falls into me then, raw sobs bouncing off my chest. And I hold her; hug her for a moment before letting go. I can’t afford to crumble with her.
Davis comes up next to me and I turn to her. ‘Let’s go and see Mrs Mills at home, shall we?’ I say.
‘No need, boss,’ she replies. ‘They’ve already brought her in.’
Thirty-Eight
The perfume. Laurie remembers now. It’s coming back to her in clunky, short, sharp bursts. The smell is familiar, but she doesn’t wear it herself. The person who carried her up the stairs, incapacitated like a rag doll, wears it, only she can’t remember what it’s called; she can smell it in her nostrils as her memory returns in hazy flashes. She knows it… Worse still, she sees the knife: it glints malevolently at her as it hovers over her wrists. They’re not her hands holding it, so whose hands are they? She can feel breath on her cheek, someone else’s presence near her, their hands on her skin, but she cannot see their face – her mind is refusing to access this last image.
Forgive me. She hears these words in her mind before the blade is dragged across her skin but the voice is unrecognisable, generic. She feels nothing as the blade glides across her wrists and opens her flesh, no pain as she slips in and out of consciousness, eventually losing it altogether. Oh God.
Laurie watches from the window of the police car as the colours of the outside world melt into a passing blur. Someone else was in the house on the night of Robert’s murder, now she is sure of it. She wants to feel a sense of relief, of euphoria, because this means she didn’t kill Robert, doesn’t it? And she didn’t attempt to kill herself either. But her memory is clouded by a sense of utter hopelessness and despair. No one will believe her. Her DNA is all over the murder weapon; she has motive and opportunity, a history of depression and mental illness, there was no sign of a break-in, no evidence of a third party… She closes her eyes again – they feel dry and gritty and she wonders how this is possible after all the crying she has done. It makes no sense, just like everything else.
‘I’ll call Marcus Wainwright right away,’ Monica had said as they dragged her from her bed. They think she has killed Claire, Robert’s lover. Fat, dumpy, mummy Claire: dead apparently.
‘What about the little one?’ she’d asked as they’d cuffed her and taken her away. ‘Is the baby okay?’ But they wouldn’t answer her. They’ll know she didn’t kill Claire, surely? How could she have? She was asleep. Monica could, would, vouch for that.
Only when she looks down at her feet, at the ballet slippers she’s wearing, she sees dirt on them, spots of muck, and they feel a little damp, like she’s worn them.
Laurie swallows hard and exhales deeply as they pull up outside the police station. It’s going to be a long night.
Thirty-Nine
The coffee cup. Fuck. She’d drunk from it, hadn’t she? Silly bitch, what had she been thinking? Or had she? She can’t quite remember if she’d taken a sip or not before she’d thrown it in that thick cunt’s face. She tries hard to think over the events as they happened. Sitting on the sofa, peering into the crib at the sniffling little bastard while Claire had gone to make the drinks. The coffee had been boiling hot. She could tell it was one of those instant sachet things, not the real stuff, cheap, like Claire herself. Maybe she had just blown on it to cool it down and hadn’t got round to taking a sip. Jesus Christ, did she or didn’t she? She needs to bloody well remember because this was the difference between spending her life behind bars or living the good life in the French Riviera, and that was a no-brainer. Still, at least they’d taken Laurie in: that was something at least. That would keep them busy for a while. She wonders if now is the time to abscond. Just cut her losses and grab her passport and go. She had money in the bank but if she left now it would look suspicious. They might even freeze her assets and that would scupper her plans royally. No. She’d just have to sit it out. Wait for them to convict Laurie, for it to be over. If she could just sit tight, soon she’d be free of them all.
Monica recalls the look on Laurie’s face as the police had frogmarched her out of the house in handcuffs, her confusion and fear. Poor, pathetic Laurie, forever the victim.
‘Now listen, don’t you worry, okay. I’ll get Marcus onto it straight away. They’ll see they’ve made a big mistake. We’ll have you out again in no time. Okay? It’s okay, darling… it will be okay,’ she’d soothed her friend, smiling at her and kissing her on the cheek briefly as they’d whisked her off. The dishy copper, Martin Delaney he’d said his name was, he’d hung back to ask her some questions. Had Laurie gone out the night before? Had she seen her leave the house? What was her state of mind? Had she been acting suspiciously? Apparently, according to the sexy policeman, who she was sure was flirting with her, a neighbour had thought she’d seen Laurie leave the house around 10.30 p.m. and get into her car… Monica smiles to herself. Jessica Bartlett. She’d bet her arse on it. In fact, she’d been relying on her nosy neighbour to do just that.
‘I didn’t see her go out of the house, no. But then again, I was in bed at 10 p.m. It’s been exhausting these past few days, looking after Laurie. She’s not been in her right mind, you see. I think it’s the drugs she’s been taking, and the alcohol… well, she’s not been lucid, hasn’t been herself since Robert’s death, since his murder. She’s found it hard to cope, you know—’
‘In what way has she not been in her right mind, Mrs Lewis?’
‘It’s Ms,’ she’d said, coyly sighing. ‘In every way, really. Rambling, crying one minute, angry the next. Poor thing, it’s been awful to see her like this. I think she’s suffering from PTSD. Come to think of it, maybe I did hear the door go last night—’
Monica taps her finger against her lips. She’ll just have to let things unfold, play themselves out. Laurie is their prime suspect. She’s the only one in the frame. She’s made sure of it. If she could only remember if she’d taken a sip of that bloody coffee. Even if she had maybe it wouldn’t be enough to extract any DNA. And even if it was, she’s not on any database anywhere. No one is looking at her. Right now she’s just the concerned friend. She’s the one who’s given Laurie an alibi. She’s off the radar.
Monica schleps into the kitchen, makes herself a coffee, grabs the paper and relaxes down onto the sofa. She tries to read but her mind keeps wandering back to Claire and the coffee cup. She flicks through the newspaper, skipping the usual mundane local-interest guff and, oh hang on, what’s this? She sits up. There’s a piece about Robert’s death. The headline screams, ‘MURDERED PHOTOGRAPHER WAS DOMESTIC ABUSER’. She frantically scans the article. Leanna George. Who the hell was she? Words jump out at her:
‘We were
soulmates… together for four years… he pursued me relentlessly… I didn’t know he was married… about the mistress…’
Monica looks at the accompanying photograph and feels bilious hatred and jealousy rise up through her chest, burning her oesophagus like acid.
‘Abused: Leanna George, 34, model and actress from Newcastle, claims the deceased, Robert Mills, was “a monster behind closed doors”.’
Model and actress! Who was she trying to kid? So, there had been yet another whore in the background too. This Geordie slut, whoever she was. Monica stares at the article in anger and disbelief. Four years! She’d known about Claire, and Laurie, obviously. But this one! Jesus, how many more were there? How many had there been?
She stares at Leanna’s picture. It’s clearly one of those publicity shots because there’s a chintzy backdrop and she’s smiling brightly, all teeth and tits. Fucking bitch!
She rips the page up in a frenzied rage until it’s shredded in a pile. Maybe she’ll pay ‘abused’ Leanna George a visit. Abused! That tacky-looking tramp doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
Violent thoughts seep into her mind like poison. But she has lost her fall guy now, temporarily at least. As Monica’s rage slowly begins to dissipate, she goes into the kitchen for a glass of water and steadies herself against the butler sink. She’s still enraged by what she’s just read, but she cannot let it cloud her judgement, muddy her thoughts. She needs a calm, cool head on her right now. The next 24 hours are crucial. Only she can’t stop the name from resounding in her head. Leanna George.
Forty
The video machine whirs with anticipation. I’m standing behind Mitchell as she runs through it with alacrity, her brow furrowed in deep concentration.
‘It’s grainy, Gov,’ she says, sucking air through her teeth, ‘but she’s there. Look.’
I lean in, put my glasses on. I find I’m needing them more and more these days. It reminds me, it’s my birthday tomorrow. Not that I’m in any mood to celebrate. How could I be when I have a potential baby killer out there? Well, I say out there. Laurie Mills is currently in interview room two right now, waiting. She’s been there for at least an hour, stewing. It’s a common tactic we use, making a suspect wait. It instils anxiety in them, not knowing when we’re going to walk through the door and kick off the fun. Delaney and Davis are going to start proceedings while I tend to some business behind the scenes. I need to speak to Jessica Bartlett and some of the neighbours. I need to visit Laurie Mills’ psychotherapist. I need to collate as much evidence as possible so that we can charge her. I know that Delaney will go right for the jugular in the interview room and given the dire circumstances I’ve currently no qualms with that. I’ve put Davis in there alongside him as the alkaline to his acid. Any personal baggage between them is currently on hold. We have important work to do.
Mitchell is right about the quality of the footage from outside Claire Wright’s apartment block. It’s got more grain than a Warburton’s factory. Even through my face furniture I can only just about make out the black-and-white figure standing at the entrance. I can see that it’s a woman from the hair, the dress, the demeanour. The positioning of the camera is pointing downwards which gives us a pretty fantastic view of the top of her head and shoulders, and that’s about it. I don’t want to blink in case I miss a second – miss something, anything.
‘Is that the only angle you’ve got?’ I don’t mean this to sound personal, like it’s Mitchell’s fault that whoever installed the damn thing must’ve been a 10ft-tall moron. What’s the point in having security cameras if you can only see the top of someone’s head?
‘Just wait a sec, Gov,’ Mitchell says. ‘There’s more.’
I watch, adrenaline ripping through me like a nail bomb, as the figure presses the intercom. I can see the outline of her arm, her finger on the buzzer, the hair, dark, falling past her shoulders. But there’s no clear visibility on the face.
‘Jesus, shit Christ!’ I curse loudly in Mitchell’s ear – not intentionally, just through pure frustration. The image is too dark, the quality too poor, to identify who exactly is pressing that damn button. It looks like it could be Laurie Mills but that’s as good as it gets. The camera gets a great view of her feet though as she pushes the door and enters the building. She’s wearing what looks like those ballet-type slippers, the same ones she was wearing when we brought her in the first time.
‘Rewind it… please,’ I instruct Mitchell and the machine whirs. The entire footage is around thirty seconds long in total.
I watch. The figure is speaking into the intercom, slightly stooped. ‘They were discussing something,’ I murmur, to myself more than anyone, as I watch it again. ‘Claire. She didn’t know her; she didn’t know this woman… Mitchell, get that footage to Image Analysis as soon as you can, see what they can do with it.’
I ask Mitchell to run through the footage once more and she duly obliges. There’s something odd about it. I can’t quite explain what, can’t pinpoint it, but it’s nagging at me like a dull toothache. The figure on screen matches Laurie Mills’ description and yet…
Davis pops her head round the door.
‘The boss wants to see you, boss.’
I inwardly sigh. ‘I’ll bet he does.’
‘It’s seems urgent, Gov,’ Davis says, grimacing slightly.
I know what’s coming and resign myself to it. ‘Tell him I’m on my way.’
Forty-One
Woods is already standing as I enter his office.
‘Riley!’ He almost trips over himself in his haste to jump out of his seat. He starts pacing the room. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been? I’ve been looking for you all morning.’
‘I’m here now, sir.’ I hear the door bang shut behind me, like a death knell. I’m expecting Woods to look angrier than he does. Judging by his expression, I’m currently sensing his overriding emotion is worry. Woods looks worried. And that’s even more worrying than him looking angry.
‘We’re in the proverbial now, Riley, you do realise this?’ he asks, his left eyebrow twitching, the lines on his forehead deepening almost in front of my eyes. ‘We had Laurie Mills and we let her go. And now she’s gone and murdered another one and attempted a third. One of them a baby! A bloody baby, Riley! We have a psycho baby killer on our hands and we let her go! They’ll be an independent enquiry over this. My name will be mud with the Super. I will have to explain how we missed the fact that Laurie Mills, the only suspect in her husband’s murder, was released without charge and not monitored closely enough. Why wasn’t she monitored round the bloody clock?’
His face crumples, matching his shirt. Even that looks upset somehow. ‘The press is going to have a field day with this, Riley, a bloody, fucking feeding frenzy! There’s a young mother murdered and her baby clinging to life, attacked in their own home in the most unspeakable way that, on the surface of it, looks as if it could have been preventable, by us. They’ll want a fall guy, someone to blame. And I will be that guy, Riley.’ He prods himself in the chest, driving the point home. ‘I’ll be ripped up for arse paper.’
‘You’re not at fault, sir,’ I say, carefully. Arse paper. That’s a new one for Woods.
‘I know I’m not bloody well at fault, Riley!’ he snaps at me, glaring. ‘YOU are! You allowed this to happen. Laurie Mills is a dangerous psychopath consumed by hatred and revenge and we missed it! YOU missed it. You misjudged her completely. And now Claire Wright is dead and her baby is in intensive care.’
His words cut right through me like an axe to the chest, because I’m beginning to think that maybe he’s right. Maybe I did misjudge Laurie Mills. Maybe I was – am – wrong about her.
‘Wouldn’t hurt a fly you said! Well, that famous intuition of yours let you down this time, didn’t it? And it let Claire and Matilda Wright down too. Now, one of them is lying on a mortuary slab. And if the baby dies, well, I can only imagine how small that coffin will be…’
I close my eyes for a fe
w seconds, let him vent and try not to imagine Matilda’s tiny casket as it’s carried through a sombre gathering of mourners.
‘There wasn’t enough evidence to keep her, sir. You know that. She had an alibi. The time of death… We’re still waiting on some of the forensics – DNA analysis. That will hopefully give us more to work with. I didn’t view her as a potential risk to anyone but herself, sir,’ I explain truthfully. ‘There was nothing to suggest that she was a danger to anyone. The woman could hardly put one foot in front of the other and—’
Woods walks around his desk. He’s running his hands through his thinning hair, which looks as if it’s shedding by the second. ‘But she is, isn’t she, Riley, a bloody danger?’ He says this through clenched teeth. ‘And in the worst way imaginable. How did you not see this coming? The woman’s clearly as mad as a bucket of frogs.’
‘It’s box, sir,’ I say before I can stop myself.
Woods glares at me, rearing back like a snake about to strike. ‘Bucket, bag, box, what difference does it fucking well make!’
Woods has used the F word. Screamed it at me in fact. I stay silent.
‘They’ll have my head for this. And yours, Dan.’ His tone has dropped an octave now though, the venom dissipating. He looks concerned again. Concerned mostly, it has to be said, for himself.
The Couple on Cedar Close Page 20
