The Couple on Cedar Close

by Anna-Lou Weatherley

  ‘Well, we’ve still got enough to charge her with Claire Wright. Woods is putting it to the CPS as we speak.’ He says this with a sense of victory. Men like Delaney make bad coppers. They want to put someone away for a crime, anyone, even if it isn’t conclusive, just to show they’ve got the power, that they get the result. He’s all about the finish line.

  ‘She keeps asking to speak to you, boss,’ Davis says.

  ‘We’re missing something,’ I say. ‘Something vital, something obvious, something that’s staring us in the face.’

  ‘Like the truth, you mean?’ Delaney snorts, but no one else joins in and his grin dissipates.

  ‘We’ve got Laurie Mills for another sixteen hours before we have to charge her,’ I say. ‘I think we should all get some shut-eye for a few hours. Come back with a fresh outlook. I want to re-examine the CCTV. Let’s speak to the neighbours again. And Davis, you and me will head down to Rochester, chase up that address, the one the phone was registered to, the number that Robert Mills called the day he was murdered.’

  ‘The address is registered to an Agnes and Stanley Atkins, boss,’ Mitchell says. She’s been listening in, paying attention. I like that. She’s got potential.

  ‘Well then, we’ll pay them a visit.’

  ‘Waste of time,’ Delaney mutters underneath his breath. ‘Just give me a few hours alone with her. I can break her,’ he says. ‘Wear her down.’

  Like he did with Davis, I imagine.

  ‘No need, Martin,’ I reply. ‘Laurie Mills is already broken.’

  Forty-Nine

  It’s unorthodox I know, and if Woods finds out then my neck’s for the block, but I want to speak to Laurie Mills off the record, and by all accounts she wants to speak to me too.

  She looks like a small child sitting on the edge of the mattress inside the cell: a lost little girl. I have to stop myself from putting an arm around her, remind myself that she’s a suspected killer, a double murderer.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me, Laurie?’

  She raises her head from the tops of her knees, where it’s been resting. She looks exhausted, her face drained of colour and vitality. ‘Yes. Thank you for coming.’ Her voice sounds frail, a little hoarse.

  ‘Can I get you anything? Water or a cup of tea perhaps?’

  ‘No. No, thank you. I just wanted to tell you that I’d remembered something from the night of Robert’s murder.’

  ‘Your memory returned?’

  ‘Not fully, no, just dribs and drabs. It’s still sketchy but it’s slowly coming back to me.’

  ‘What do you remember, Laurie?’

  ‘Someone else in the house. I felt their presence. I could smell perfume. Not my perfume. And I recognise it but I can’t place it, can’t remember what it’s called. Someone carried me up the stairs. I remember the sensation of being weightless in their arms, of bashing my shins against the bannisters. That’s how I got these bruises – see?’ She pulls the standard grey joggers up with ease to show me. ‘I had no recollection of going upstairs, Detective, because I didn’t. Someone took me upstairs and put me in the guest room where Robert was.’

  ‘Can you remember whether it was a man or a woman, Laurie? Please try and think hard.’

  She shakes her head with frustration. ‘I can’t be sure. I can’t see their face, but I can feel them, the sensation of being carried up the stairs in their arms. Perhaps it was a man – a man would be able to carry me up the stairs, wouldn’t he?’

  I’m pretty sure a child could carry Laurie Mills up a flight of stairs.

  ‘But then I could smell perfume, so maybe it was a woman. Somehow I sense it was a woman.’

  ‘Did you tell the other officers this, Laurie? Did you tell them this in interview earlier?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I didn’t think they would believe me. Everyone thinks I did it, that I killed Robert and then Claire.’ She wraps her hands around her knees, hugs herself. ‘Look, Detective, I need to come clean…’

  I swallow dryly. If she confesses now to me off the record, then our impromptu chat is going to be exposed and that neck of mine will be twice for the block and Woods will enjoy every swing of the axe.

  ‘I thought about killing Robert. I even bought some poison, arsenic it was. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to purchase. No doubt forensics will find this out once they’ve gone through my computer so I thought I would tell you, give you a heads-up.’ She smiles softly but it has a hopelessness to it, like she knows her goose is cooked. ‘I thought about it in a moment of madness, killing him I mean. I just wanted to be free of him, do you understand?’

  ‘Why poison?’ It’s a very different method of murder than slitting someone’s throat and plunging a knife into them.

  ‘Because he was mine,’ she says. ‘But I couldn’t go through with it. It was a ridiculous idea. I didn’t know what I was thinking—’

  ‘What did you do with the arsenic, Laurie?’

  ‘Washed it down the sink, threw the bottle away.’

  I nod. ‘Okay.’

  ‘But there’s something else, something Monica said.’

  ‘Monica Lewis, your friend?’

  ‘Yes. She told me she’d seen me that night, the night of Robert’s murder. She said that she’d come over to the house to check on me, to see if I was okay. She knew Robert was coming over; I’d told her that morning, when he’d messaged me. It would’ve been the first time I’d seen him since the day of the barbecue, since I discovered— Well, anyway, she says she looked through the window and saw us arguing in the kitchen, and that I had a knife—’

  ‘She saw you holding a knife in your hand?’

  ‘Yes, and she said that Robert and I were arguing. But I swear to you, Detective Riley’ – she looks me directly in the eyes – ‘I swear on the souls of my dead children that I don’t remember seeing Robert that night, not alive anyway. I recall prepping the food, waiting, drinking at the kitchen table. I fell asleep there, I’m sure of it. But somehow, somehow, when I woke I was upstairs, covered in my husband’s blood and Robert was…’

  We both know how the story ends.

  ‘Who else knew Robert was coming to see you?’

  ‘No one,’ she says, ‘just me and Monica, and I guess whoever else Robert told – Claire I’m guessing, maybe his solicitor. I don’t know.’

  I nod again.

  ‘There was someone else there that night. I know it, Detective. I can feel it. If only I could just see their face in my mind. I didn’t kill Robert. I didn’t kill Claire. I think I’m being set up.

  ‘Do you believe me, Detective?’ she asks, her large brown eyes meeting with mine once again.

  I look into them, holding her gaze.

  ‘Yes, Laurie,’ I say. ‘I do.’

  Fifty

  The incident room is buzzing as I walk through the door. I can smell pungent determination mixed with stale sweat and coffee. It’s strangely reassuring.

  ‘CCTV, Gov,’ Baylis says. ‘The geeks have been on it. There’s something I think you need to see.’

  ‘I like the sound of that, Baylis,’ I say, beckoning Davis over. ‘Run it.’ I’m feeling hopeful.

  ‘Well,’ Baylis begins, ‘intelligence has done well. They’ve enhanced as much as they could and this,’ she says, smiling, ‘is what they’ve come up with.’

  Davis and I are both standing either side of Baylis, leaning over the desk. I put my glasses on. My heart rate increases as she begins to run the tape. I watch as the shadowy female figure comes into view, begins to start talking into Claire Wright’s intercom system. It’s obvious she’s speaking, even though there’s no sound. The image zooms into the top of her head.

  ‘See anything?’ Baylis looks chuffed enough to eat herself.

  ‘Run it back,’ Davis says, looking as puzzled as I feel.

  The machine whirs back and Baylis freezes it.

  ‘What am I supposed to be looking at, Baylis?’ />
  ‘Hang on! Oh. My. God.’ Davis covers her mouth, but it doesn’t conceal the smile underneath that’s creeping through.

  ‘Davis has got it!’ Baylis laughs gently. ‘But then again, she is a woman.’

  I stare at the pair of them simultaneously. ‘Well, you’ll have to enlighten this man,’ I say.

  ‘One more try, boss.’ She runs the tape forward and then back again to the female figure as she presses the intercom, the camera catching the top of her head, zooming in closely onto it.

  ‘See it. To the left?’ Baylis taps the image with the nib of a pen. ‘That tiny thing there?’

  I squint. ‘It looks like the edge of a tag, a label.’ I study it, scrutinising the footage with narrow eyes.

  ‘It’s only a syrup,’ Davis says. ‘She’s wearing a goddamn wig.’

  I feel a rush of blood to my head.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ I say. ‘Keep running the tape.’ I watch the image once more, the woman as she presses the intercom, the top of her head as she speaks into it and then the moment she walks forward to push the door open after Claire Wright has buzzed her in. That’s when I notice it. Intelligence has sharpened the image. Her foot. There’s something on her foot.

  ‘Go closer in,’ I instruct Baylis. ‘Get a close-up of her foot.’

  She presses the necessary buttons and the woman’s foot comes into focus.

  ‘There! See it?’ It’s small but it’s there. There’s something on her foot – a mark; a tattoo perhaps. ‘Send it back to the geeks,’ I say. ‘Get them to enhance the foot. We need to see what it is. Davis, ask someone to check Laurie Mills’ right foot for any markings, yes?’

  ‘Yes, Gov.’

  ‘And get your coat. We’re going to Rochester.’

  ‘You take me to all the best places,’ Davis replies, grabbing her coat from the back of her chair.

  Fifty-One

  Rochester might boast a cathedral, but it’s a pretty moribund little town in my opinion, a bit like Canterbury’s scruffier, black sheep of a cousin. There’s a sense of time stood still here; a sense of faded glory, like a once-beautiful Hollywood starlet who’s let herself go.

  We pull up outside a large but modest-looking 1930s semi.

  ‘I hope there’s someone in, boss. Wasted journey otherwise,’ Davis says, stating the obvious. ‘Perhaps we should have called first.’

  ‘The element of surprise, Davis.’ I turn to her. ‘Don’t underestimate it. And, Davis, have a little faith, will you? You do realise we’re nothing but human transmitters. Whatever you think becomes.’

  ‘In that case I’m a very rich supermodel,’ she says. ‘Anyway, I hope you’re right.’

  Luckily, I am. A woman pokes her head round the door. At a glance I’d say she was in her late fifties. She’s well presented in smart jeans and a white shirt. Her face is lightly made-up and her hair styled. I imagine she was once extremely attractive. Faded glamour.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Her expression is blank as she opens the door a fraction wider.

  ‘We’re sorry to bother you. I’m Detective Dan Riley and this is DS Lucy Davis. Are you Agnes Atkins?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replies, fiddling with her necklace: a cross. ‘You’re here about Bertie?’

  Davis and I glance at each other.

  ‘Bertie?’

  ‘Yes. Robert. Robert Mills. My son.’

  Neither of us were expecting her to mention Robert Mills’ name.

  ‘Yes,’ Davis says quickly. ‘Can we come in?’

  Fifty-Two

  ‘This is Stanley, my husband.’ Agnes leads Davis and I into a pristine living room and offers us a seat on a cream corner sofa covered in floral scatter cushions. It smells fresh, like she’s just cleaned the place. I spot some sympathy cards on the mantelpiece above the fireplace and a fresh bouquet of lilies in a large glass vase next to them. There’s a gilt effigy of Christ on the cross next to the mirror. ‘Stanley, this is Detective—’

  ‘Riley,’ I say as he stands to shake my hand. ‘And this is DS Davis.’

  ‘You took your time,’ he says dryly. ‘We were wondering when you’d get round to us.’

  ‘You’re related to the deceased, Robert Mills?’ It’s a genuine question. Atkins was the name that came up from the searches, not Mills.

  Stanley raises an eyebrow and looks at his wife. ‘You could say that. We’re his parents. Or were his parents, I should say.’

  I hope the shock isn’t registering on my face.

  ‘Can I offer you tea? Coffee? A soft drink, maybe?’ Agnes smiles at me brightly; the kind of smile that is at odds with someone whose son has just been brutally murdered.

  Something isn’t quite right here. I can tell Davis senses this too as she’s shifting from foot to foot and glancing over at me. We both decline the offer of refreshments.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss, about Robert,’ I say. ‘It must’ve been a terrible shock.’

  Agnes glances at her husband as if asking permission to speak. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice is soft and measured, her body language guarded. ‘Yes. Yes, it was. We’ve been praying for him, haven’t we, Stan?’

  ‘Haven’t we always, dear?’ he mutters his response. I’m not sure whether I was intended to hear the comment or not.

  ‘Agnes, when was the last time you saw your son?’

  She folds one leg over the other as she sits down. The husband’s face remains expressionless. ‘I spoke to him that day. The day of his…’ She drops her head. ‘The day he died. I hadn’t seen him for a while. Weeks, I suppose—’

  ‘More like months, Aggy,’ Stanley remarks caustically. ‘He never bothered with us much, Detective.’

  Agnes shifts a little uncomfortably on the sofa, fiddles with a cushion.

  ‘What did you speak about, Mrs Atkins?’

  ‘General chit-chat, really,’ she says, ‘nothing unusual. How he was, where he was working, that kind of thing.’

  I nod. ‘Were you close? Did you get on well with your son?’ The question is intended for both of them because I’m sensing some kind of animosity from the husband. ‘I notice that Robert doesn’t have the same surname as yourselves. Can I ask, is this your second marriage, Mrs Atkins, because the name… Robert’s surname was Mills?’

  ‘No. It’s not anyone’s second marriage, Detective,’ Stanley Atkins interjects curtly. ‘We’re Catholics. We take our vows seriously; forsaking all others til death do us part. We’re Robert’s biological parents. He decided to change his surname.’

  ‘Why was that?’ Davis asks.

  ‘Work reasons,’ Agnes says quickly. ‘He felt Mills had a better ring to it than Atkins. ‘That it sounded more… well, I don’t know, posher, so he changed it.’

  ‘I see.’ Only I don’t. Not really. ‘Was Robert your only son? Does he have any siblings?’ Now I’m on full alert because Agnes’s face displays something close to panic and she glances shiftily at her husband.

  ‘He was an only child,’ Stanley replies quickly.

  ‘Were you familiar with Claire Wright and Matilda, your grandchild? Once again, we’re very sorry for your loss. I can only imagine what a terrible ordeal this is for you both.’

  Only it doesn’t really seem to be translating as such from where I’m standing. In tragedies such as this there would usually be grief-stricken tears and inconsolable sadness. But Stanley and Agnes appear cold and cool and a little aloof.

  ‘We never met her,’ Agnes says, her head dropping again. ‘We had hoped to one day. Or at least, I had hoped to…’ Her voice trails off. ‘Robert promised me he would have her baptised and that when he did we’d be invited.’

  ‘Like I said,’ Stanley interjects again. ‘He hardly bothered with his mother and I when he was alive. He didn’t much care for what we wanted. For what anyone wanted.’ His voice is acerbic.

  Davis glances at me again.

  ‘Do you know anyone by the name of Kiki Mills? Is she a relative or Robert’s, of yourselves?’

>   I see a look of fresh panic flash across Agnes Atkins’ face.

  ‘We don’t know anyone by that name,’ Stanley Atkins says quickly. ‘Do we, Agnes?’

  She looks nervously at her husband. ‘No,’ she replies.

  ‘So you can’t explain why a phone has been registered in that name to this address?’

  ‘A phone?’ Agnes looks up at me blankly.

  ‘Yes. A phone is registered in that name to this address. The number came up on your son’s phone records. There was communication between Robert and the owner of the phone on the day of his murder, and regular contact prior to that day for some time before that. Have you any idea who this Kiki might be?’

  ‘We’ve just told you: we don’t know anyone by that name. It must be a mistake.’ Mr Atkins’ voice is sharp.

  ‘We can’t bury him until they release the body,’ Agnes says quietly. ‘Our son.’ She’s fiddling with her cross again, her fingers twitching.

  Stanley turns to his wife. ‘Don’t upset yourself, Aggy. Let the people do their jobs, then we can say our farewells.’ He makes to touch his wife’s arm but she moves away before he makes contact. I watch the brittle exchange between them. This is not your typical grieving couple.

  ‘Have you any idea who may have wanted your son dead?’

  Stanley Atkins doesn’t answer.

  ‘We heard that Laurie is in custody,’ Agnes says. ‘That you think she killed Robert and that Claire girl—’

  ‘Can’t say I’d blame the poor woman if she had,’ Stanley scoffs underneath his breath, but both Davis and I hear him.

  ‘What makes you say that, Mr Atkins?’

  He sighs, mutters something incoherent.

  ‘Don’t mind him,’ Agnes says dismissively. ‘He’s just upset. We liked Laurie. She was, she is… well, she put up with a lot over the years.’

  ‘Like what exactly?’ Davis asks.

  ‘Well, Robert… Robert wasn’t always… I think it was a difficult marriage,’ she explains diplomatically.