‘We don’t actually know, not for certain, who committed any of the murders yet, sir. That’s just it. Laurie Mills is our prime suspect, but as I’ve said, it’s largely circumstantial and let’s not forget that she has an alibi.’
Woods collapses into his swivel chair and buries his head in his hands. There’s a pregnant pause.
‘Look, sir, I’m as upset about this as you are,’ I say. ‘You think I want the death of a baby, or any death for that matter, on my conscience, or on my watch? The team are devastated, sir. I am devastated…’ I feel my emotions rising and perhaps it shows on my face because Woods’ expression visibly softens.
‘We’ve got Laurie Mills downstairs in room two,’ I continue.
‘And CCTV footage of her going into Claire Wright’s apartment?’ Woods asks rhetorically.
I shake my head. ‘No positive ID, sir. It’s too grainy, the angle is wrong. But it looks as if it could be Laurie Mills.’
‘For God’s sake.’ He strokes his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully. ‘But a neighbour saw her leave in her car around 10.30 p.m. last night?’
‘Allegedly. I’m going to see her now. Jessica Bartlett. Lives next door. Then I’m paying Laurie Mills’ psychotherapist a visit. I need an insight into Mills’ mind.’
‘What we need, Riley, is a bloody conviction. There’s no one else in the frame. Focus on gathering evidence. Don’t go off on one of your tangents. I mean it, Riley – we cannot afford to cock this up any more than we – than you – already have.’
I nod, silent for a moment. ‘Seems odd to me that Laurie Mills would brazenly go round to Claire Wright’s house and murder her in cold blood knowing she was under suspicion of her husband’s murder, knowing that she might be seen, knowing that there would most likely be CCTV at Claire’s apartment… It doesn’t make any sense, sir. Laurie Mills comes across as a victim, not a psychopathic killer. We’re missing something—’
Woods bangs his fist onto his desk, stopping me mid-sentence. ‘The woman has mental-health issues. Who knows what the hell goes on in the mind of a psychopath?’
‘Psychopaths are cunning, sir. They’re smart, they’re manipulative, they’re… clever. Doesn’t seem too clever to me to murder your husband and then brazenly kill the mistress days later while there’s so much heat on you…’
Now it’s Woods’ turn to stay silent, which usually suggests he’s starting to second-guess himself. He looks up at me with one of his resigned looks that’s generally accompanied by a deep and irritable exhalation of breath.
‘Well, Riley,’ he says, ‘if Laurie Mills isn’t the killer, then who the bloody hell is?’
I meet his watery, worried eyes with my own, ‘I don’t know yet, sir,’ I say. ‘But I promise you, even if it costs me my badge, I will find out.’
I hear him mutter something as I leave his office. I can’t be sure, but I think it went something along the lines of, ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
Forty-Two
Jessica Bartlett looks nosy. Even before she opens her mouth I can tell. Her narrow eyes dart from side to side as she speaks and she gesticulates in a camp manner that suggests she has a penchant for drama – namely other people’s. Still, people like me need the Jessica Bartletts of this world and never more so than now.
‘I’m telling you I saw her,’ she says, ‘with my own eyes. It was around 10.30 p.m. I know it was because I’d just finished watching one of my programs. I’d gone to the window because I thought I’d heard someone outside, the sound of a car door opening, and an engine starting up. I thought it might be one of them reporters. There’s been press crawling all over the close since… well, since Robert was killed. They’ve been at my door every day religiously since.’
I’ll bet they have. And I bet she welcomed them with open arms. My thoughts drift to Fi then; she’s been strangely quiet about this case, aside from the Leanna George tip-off. It makes me think she’s avoiding me, which in turn makes me feel a bit shitty. Maybe I’ll call her.
‘Can I offer you tea? Coffee? How about a latte?’ Jessica asks jovially.
She doesn’t yet know about the Wright murder. And I’m not about to tell her. She’ll find out soon enough.
‘I’ve just bought one of those fancy barista machines. Maggie from number 38 has one. Always raving about it she is, how great her coffee is, so I thought I’d see what all the fuss was about.’ She tucks a strand of her dyed blonde bob behind her ear and smiles at me with narrow eyes.
‘I’m good, thanks,’ I reply, even though I’m tempted. I could do with a hit of something.
‘I’ve lived on this close for almost eighteen years now,’ Jessica says. ‘We moved here when the boys were little. It was a lovely place to raise kids. Safe, you know. Well, until now obviously.’ She snorts a little, rolls her eyes. ‘I mean, who’d have thought there would ever be a murder right next door. It’s shocking. Truly shocking.’
She looks tickled pink.
‘They were always fighting you know, the Millses. I heard them – when he lived there that is. Doors slamming, things banging around. Sometimes I heard her crying in the garden outside. I never interfered though,’ Jessica adds, as if this would be the very antithesis of her nature. ‘Hardly ever saw the woman. In fact, I’ve only met her face-to-face once, at the barbecue – the summer barbecue. I suppose you’ve already heard all about that?’
I nod. ‘Yes I have.’
She looks mildly disappointed. ‘Dreadful business, that was. She made a right show of herself she did, in front of the entire street as well. Aired all their dirty laundry in public. Drunk as a skunk she was. Still, can’t say I didn’t feel a little sorry for her. Him cheating on her like that and then that horrendous accident where she lost those babies. Enough to drive most to murder I’m sure. She wasn’t the friendly sort, Laurie – kept herself very much to herself. She had a nervous disposition – well, that’s how she came across when I met her: jumpy, you know, easily startled. Pretty woman, but a little on the thin side, looked like she needed a decent meal or two; it ages you, it does, being too thin, especially as you get older. She was totally different with a drink inside her though; she wasn’t so shy then, let me tell you.’ Jessica raises her eyebrows. ‘Tore him off a strip she did, publicly outed his affair, and the fact he’d fathered a child with this woman. Never saw her though, the mistress that is. He never brought her to the house – not that I saw anyway.’
I refrain from adding and I’m sure you would’ve.
‘Hmm, yes.’ I nod cordially. ‘Are you absolutely sure it was Laurie Mills you saw last night, Mrs Bartlett?’
She turns from the coffee machine, smooths down the front of her dress in a self-important manner and bristles. ‘Well, Detective, it certainly looked like her. And she got into her own car. Who else could it have been? Has something happened, Detective? Has something happened to Laurie?’
I refrain from giving her a definitive answer. We’ve impounded Laurie Mills’ Audi. It’s with forensics as we speak. I can only hope, pray, that there’s some DNA evidence to link Laurie to Claire Wright. The dark hair found at Claire’s apartment has yet to be identified.
‘It was dark though, wasn’t it?’ I say.
‘Well, yes, it was,’ she agrees, suddenly looking as if she might be doubting herself. ‘But I definitely knew it was Laurie.’
‘How?’
‘The dress – I think I’ve seen her wearing it before. It struck me as summery, for the time of year anyway, you know, floaty and floral. Are you sure something hasn’t happened?’
‘You’d seen her in that dress before?’
‘Yes. It was the same one she wore to the barbecue I think, very boho, sort of Stevie Nicks sty—’
‘Did you see her face?’ I cut her off mid-sentence. ‘Did you get a positive look at her face, Mrs Bartlett?’
‘Well, actually…’ She glances down at her feet. She’s wearing sensible court shoes that look uncomfortable but expensive and a tight-fig
hting knee-length dress that looks like someone poured her into it. ‘Not exactly. I just saw her from a distance. Saw the long dark hair, the clothes and—’
‘So you couldn’t definitively say it was Laurie Mills then?’
Jessica Bartlett looks a little flustered now. ‘Will I need to give evidence in court?’ Her eyes light up. I can tell she’s planning her outfit already, gearing up for her five minutes in the spotlight.
‘Possibly, yes,’ I tell her and she practically purrs with impending delight. ‘So, can you say for absolute definite that the woman you saw getting into Laurie Mills’ Audi last night was Laurie Mills?’
She pauses for a moment, gives me a knowing sideways glance.
‘Something happened last night, didn’t it? I won’t tell anyone, Detective, not even my husband. Not that we do much talking these days.’ She laughs, hoping to prompt me into spilling the beans, but I continue with the line of questioning.
‘Are you absolutely certain about what and who you saw last night, Mrs Bartlett?’
She sighs in defeat, folds her arms with a sense of purpose and taps her lip with her finger. I’ve always wondered why people do that; how could it possibly help you to remember?
‘Well, I can’t say I’m one hundred per cent sure it was her because she was a little way away and it was dark, but I’m fairly certain.’
Fairly certain is not good enough. Not in my book.
‘But it had to be Laurie,’ she says, offering me a fancy biscuit, which I decline. ‘Who else could it have been?’
* * *
Harding calls me as I’m making my way over to see Dr Wells, Laurie’s psychologist. I swing the car left and put my foot down, think about putting the blue light on in case I hit traffic. Hey, there are some perks to this job.
‘This needs to be welcome news, Harding,’ I say. And I’m not joking.
‘We traced that number, Gov. The one on Robert Mills’ phone. The unknown one he made and received calls from on the day of his murder.’
‘And?’
‘Registered to someone called Kiki Mills, number 253 Rotherham Way, Rochester, Kent.’
Kiki Mills? Mills…
‘The ping on the day of Robert’s murder came from the tower nearest to Cedar Close. Whoever he was speaking to was close by, in the area.’
My brain kicks into overdrive as I change up a gear. ‘Okay… and?’
‘And’ – she pauses for effect – ‘the hair’s a match, Gov.’ Harding sounds elated. ‘The hair found at Claire Wright’s apartment. It belongs to Laurie Mills.’
I swallow hard, close my eyes for a nanosecond longer than a blink.
‘No fingerprints?’
‘Nothing boss. Just the hair. It’s enough though, isn’t it?’ she asks, hopefully. ‘We’ve got her now, boss.’
‘We’ve got her, Harding. Well done. Well done.’ I should feel as elated as Harding sounds on the phone but as I hang up, the only thing running through my mind is one name: Kiki Mills.
Forty-Three
Kiki – Summer 1996
‘God, look at you, you look… incredible.’ He takes a step back, admires her, ‘You look all grown-up.’
Kiki smiles contentedly. She knows she has blossomed recently, in the last six months in particular; her breasts have become fuller, rounder and more prominent; she has grown taller, slimmer, more streamlined; and she’s wearing her hair longer now, in beachy waves past her shoulders. She’s begun to turn heads and she likes the omnipotent feeling it gives her. After they discovered she was pregnant and forced her into having an abortion, they’d sent her away to boarding school, left her in the charge of those vicious nuns. They had tried every punishment: solitary confinement, eight hours a day of prayer to repent for her sins, ice-cold baths, even denying her food, but in the eighteen months there they couldn’t break her. The daily torture had made her resolve stronger, her desires greater, her determination fiercer. She was seventeen now and they could no longer control her; they couldn’t tell her what to do anymore or beat her down mentally and physically. The nuns had had enough of her openly flouting the rules, deliberately antagonising them by wearing stockings and suspenders underneath her uniform, smoking and stealing alcohol from the local town, absconding at night to sleep with strangers she picked up in pubs or by thumbing for lifts. When she’d found herself pregnant again the nuns had expelled her, washing their hands of her. Disgusted and outraged, her mother and father had followed suit.
* * *
‘We’ve arranged for you to go and live with a cousin of mine in London. She’ll give you free board for a while but not forever. You’ll have to go out and earn your keep.’ Her mother could barely look at her.
‘I’m sure I’ll find a way to contribute,’ Kiki replied, shaking her breasts provocatively. ‘I’ve been told I have great assets.’
Her mother’s stony face is a proper picture.
Get a load of that, bitch.
‘You’re never to come back here again,’ she says stoically. ‘You’re not welcome here. What you did, what you’ve done with your brother, and those men, all those other men, it’s evil, the work of the devil, against God’s will. You stay away from my boy; you will not ruin his life. I will not let you do that.’
Kiki wants to laugh. Her mother knows nothing; it was her precious son who had seduced her in the beginning. It had been her darling boy who had taken Kiki’s virginity and introduced her to pleasures of the flesh, and oh such pleasures they were! But it wasn’t just carnal lust – they loved each other and they were going to be together, whether her mother liked it or not. She wasn’t going to let this bitter old lush stand in the way of true love, of a life of happiness with the man she loved. They would marry and have a family together. That’s what he had told her since they were children: their destiny was together, it had been written in the stars by the gods, the real ones, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
‘He’s gone away, somewhere you’ll never find him. He wants nothing to do with you and your wickedness.’
Kiki laughs out loud now, watches the anger brewing on her mother’s haggard features. She’s not scared of her anymore. She’s no longer that small child frightened of getting a beating and being sent to her room with no food. She’s waited for this moment for a long time.
‘I’m afraid, Mother, you’re wrong. I know exactly where Bertie is and I’m going to live with him, as his lover. Bertie loves me. He wants me – he needs me – as much as I need him. We’re going to get married and start a family together, a family you’ll never see or be part of. There’s nothing you can do about it, you or that pathetic old wretch of a “man” you’re married to. We’re not breaking any laws. He’s there, waiting for me now, no doubt hard and ready to make babies—’
Her mother slaps Kiki hard across the face, taking the wind from her. ‘You vile little slut! You stay away from my boy! God help me, I will kill you. You should’ve been drowned at birth. Born to a whore, it was always going to follow that you would become one. Lord knows I tried…’ Her mother begins to cry. ‘When we couldn’t have any more children, I thought I would give an unwanted child a loving and caring home, complete our family, a sister for our boy… You looked so innocent in that crib, lying there like a little angel, but the devil has many disguises, and he was at play that day I went to collect you. You have destroyed our family.’
Kiki rubs her face with one hand while bringing down the hardest slap she can across her mother’s cheek, causing her to gasp at the impact.
‘That was the last time you’ll ever hit me,’ she says, resisting the urge to grab a kitchen knife and stab her mother to death there and then. ‘Let me tell you something, Mummy Dearest. There is no God. There is no devil either. There is only love and hate, good and bad, light and dark… A loving and caring home you say? Ha!’ She throws her head back manically and for the first time she sees fear on her mother’s face – the tables have turned. ‘I am what I am because of you: starved
of affection, starved of love, beaten and abused. You drove me into his arms and into his bed. You, Mother – you and that sorry excuse of a father. And if there somehow is a God, he must’ve decided to make you barren for a reason, and that reason is that you are evil, Mother – a vicious, cold, alcoholic hypocrite hiding behind religion in a bid to convince yourself you’re a good person.’
Her mother is sitting on the kitchen floor shaking, her hand attached to her face where Kiki’s slap has left a red mark, unable to speak.
‘And because of the wicked evil sinner you are, Mother, you’ve lost your son, and your daughter too, though I never really was a daughter, was I? Just a punching bag; a reminder of your empty, functionless womb; a smokescreen for the “respectable and caring” woman you portray yourself to be to your churchgoing friends.
‘So goodbye, Mother,’ Kiki says, turning to leave, taking one last look at the woman on the kitchen floor, a pathetic, drink-sodden harridan. ‘And fuck you.’
* * *
‘I’ve been waiting for this moment for such a long time,’ she says, going to him. He feels warm: her blanket. ‘We did it, Bertie. We’re free. Now we can be together. You kept your promise – you came back for me.’
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I came back for you, Kiki, and we can be together, but no one can know. I have to tell Mum and Dad that you’re not here, that I’ve sent you away, that it’s over.’
She pulls back from him. ‘Fuck them! Fuck what they think! Don’t tell me you care what they think?’
He drops her embrace, lights them both a cigarette from a packet on the small kitchen table. ‘This place costs a fortune,’ he says. ‘I’m getting more jobs by the day but the rent, well, living in London is expensive.’
The Couple on Cedar Close Page 21
