Grave Decisions

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Grave Decisions Page 7

by Claire Highton-Stevenson


  Now, she was more interested. She sat up and wiped her face with her hand. “Go on.”

  “It’s not clear cut, but just before the fight kicked off, they moved in.”

  “They got any form for using weapons?”

  He nodded. “I’ll get the files.”

  “Okay, leave them with me, then take Andy with you and pick one of them up.” She turned her attention back to Dale. “Thank God for Police Community Support Officers, eh?”

  ~Grave~

  Constance Martin lived an upbeat life really, considering all that she had been through. Whitton was early and read through her file as she waited in the car to speak with her parents. Born Martin Julian Tillerson, she had done well at school. Studied hard and got a job in a local bank. At first, it appeared that Martin had attempted to live a life that fit. She dated several men, but none of the relationships seemed to work out. At 28, Martin began the process of transitioning physically into Constance. The progression was slow and tiresome if you needed the NHS. Constance had taken to prostitution in order to speed up the procedures by going private. What little Whitton knew about being transgender or the treatments involved had come from TV and newspapers, or the diversity courses she got sent on. She made a mental note to speak to someone for more information. Checking her watch, she closed the file, placed it back in her bag, and got out of the car.

  Martin Tillerson Sr wasn’t the kind of man who Whitton assumed would be all that pleased to discover his child was anything but straight and cisgender. Mrs. Tillerson, or Barbara, looked as though she was a woman who believed in her husband, especially his right to rule the roost. Other than a quick hello, she didn’t speak. It was awkward, and probably the only time that Whitton wished she had Dale with her.

  “So, I wanted to speak to you face-to-face. We have an ongoing case open right now involving Constance,” Whitton said as she took a seat at the dining room table made of dark mahogany polished to within an inch of its life.

  “Who?” the father asked. His face was passive as he stared at her, big hands folded around one another on the table.

  “Constance Martin, she was formerly…”

  “You mean Martin, our son?” She remembered the photo of Constance and considered how unfortunate she was that she looked like her father. Except the eyes; Constance didn’t have his mean, glowering brow and cold, staring eyes. She had her mother’s. Warm, but wary.

  Whitton didn’t answer. Instead she looked at the wife, who looked away.

  “I wondered what you could tell me about George Herring?”

  The wife looked to the husband for answers. “Not sure I can tell you anything,” he said. “We never met him more than a handful of times. He seemed nice enough.”

  “Were you aware that Constance had made a complaint to the police about him?

  “Why would we be aware of that?” Not, why would she do that? Whitton wasn’t sure this man knew the first thing about his child.

  Barbara Tillerson finally spoke. “W-what kind of complaint?”

  “Sexual assault, as a child.” She wasn’t going to pull her punches with these people. Barbara Tillerson’s face went white.

  “I suppose that explains why he was the way that he was,” Mr. Tillerson said, straightening up and puffing his chest out, as though somehow having a reason like that was better than accepting your kid might just be trans, like it was less of a reflection on him.

  Holding her tongue once more, Whitton pressed on. “So, I am trying to gain more information on—”

  “The thing is, Officer—”

  “Detective, it’s Detective Inspector Whitton,” she interrupted. She was a little tired of people like this: self-righteous and pious.

  “Right, well the thing is you see, we didn’t really see very much of Martin once he left home. And if we’re honest, we preferred it that way than to witness him behaving the way that he was. Wearing skirts and dresses, it’s not natural.” He tried to smile, and Whitton ignored him. Smiling at him would give him the impression that she agreed, and she didn’t. She might not understand much about Constance’s decisions in life, but she understood her right to make them and to live them.

  She stood up and grabbed her bag. “I just wanted you to know that I will do whatever I can for Constance.” She asserted the name and made it clear that was whose side she was on. “Her attacker may well be dead now, but if I can prove what he did…” She left it there. “Whatever you think? Constance was still your child.”

  ~Grave~

  The office was loud when Whitton came back. Andy Bowen and Jeff Branson were celebrating. Someone had opened another large box of biscuits on the desk and filled the coffee machine with a fresh brew. She filled a mug and contemplated the scene.

  Andy grinned and raised his coffee cup. “We got them,” he announced. “Trevor Hayes and Tyler Jacobs,” he reminded her – not that she had forgotten, but she let him carry on. “Hayes flipped.”

  Jeff butted in then, his own grin wide and bright. “Yeah, he decided that Jacobs was a good mate, but he wasn’t worth going to prison for.”

  “So, you’ve got it all wrapped up then?” she asked, taking a sip of her coffee.

  Both men nodded. “Signed and sealed. The CPS seem happy with it. Both were charged with manslaughter this morning.”

  She turned and headed towards her office. “If anyone wants me, I’ll be visiting Gina Ashcroft with the news, and then I am going home.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Whitton stretched out on the couch, surrounded by paper held down with every object she could find to stop it blowing away when the oscillating fan swept back around the room. It was gone nine p.m., and the Chinese take-away she had ordered on the way home was still in its containers on the counter in a white plastic bag, forgotten.

  She was expecting Rachel at some point. The nurse had been due to finish her shift around seven, but an RTA involving three cars had meant she was requested to stay on, much to Whitton’s distress. She wanted her here. To keep herself busy, she had started reading through all of the files she had on both Grave cases.

  The file on Constance Martin was open and spread out in front of her. Jackie had been right when she had said there wasn’t much. Witness statements barely filled half a page. She stretched out and let her head fall back against the couch. Her eyes were gritty, tired from the lack of sleep these past few nights. She fished out the autopsy report from amongst the photographs of the body in situ and then the autopsy shots, and started to read through.

  She skipped through the usual data regarding height, weight, etc., and found the cause of death: suicide by hanging. The pathologist also noted a large fist-sized bruise to the abdominal area, as well as bruising to the left side of the victim’s zygomatic arch and supraorbital ridge. Constance had been beaten.

  The key sliding into the lock got her attention, and she placed the paperwork back into the file, grabbing at the rest and tidying it all away just as the door swung open and Rachel slumped in. “Hey,” she called out as she hung her jacket on the hook Saint had put up for Sophie. She dropped her bag down on the floor.

  “Alright, how was work?” Sophie said, standing and moving towards the kitchen to head Rachel off. The blonde pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth as soon as she reached her.

  “Was okay, just busy, you know. I thought I was going to get away on time, and then…” She didn’t need to go into details; Sophie knew all she needed to know.

  “Wanna brew?” The kettle was already filled and ready to go when Sophie flicked the switch for it to boil. She turned, her back leant up against the counter. Rachel smiled and casually stepped into her space, her arms easily snaking around her lover’s neck as she brought their lips together. The gentleness with which the kiss began was almost torturous as Sophie let her hands rest gently around Rachel’s waist, deepening the kiss with an unhurried and leisurely nipping of her lips until they parted to allow the slow intrusion of her tongue to slide effortlessly aga
inst its match. At the touch, Rachel groaned and parted her legs, one either side of Sophie’s thigh. Heat and steam from the kettle brought a sheen of sweat to her skin.

  “Mm, kiss me like that always,” Rachel whispered as they parted, her forehead resting against Sophie’s lips.

  “Supraorbital bridge, that’s the eyebrow, right?” Sophie said.

  Rachel leant back and raised a perfectly shaped supraorbital bridge. “Okay, random. But, yes.” She couldn’t keep the grin from her face as she traced her finger along Sophie’s brow. Sophie in work mode was pretty much her favourite, other than Sophie in sex mode; that Sophie always won out. “Why?” She stepped back so that Sophie could turn and finish making a cup of tea, the kettle having clicked to announce its achievement moments earlier.

  “Just reading through an autopsy, and the vic had bruising to that and the zygomatic arch, which I do know is the cheekbone,” she answered before Rachel could tell her that. Teabags drenched in boiling water, she turned back around to allow them to steep a little. “I’m guessing she was involved in a fight at some point just before she died. Probably has nothing to do with the case, just feel for her.”

  Rachel moved back in and took up the same position as before, straddling her detective’s leg. “Is this related to the Grave Murders?”

  Sophie pulled on Rachel’s hips, needing to feel closer. “Maybe. Are you hungry? I picked up Chinese.”

  “Death to food in less than a minute.” Rachel chuckled. “Don’t let that tea stew.” She winked and pulled away. “I’m just going to grab a shower and change.”

  ~Grave~

  Rachel wanted her, that much was clear as she rhythmically undulated her hips back and forth, impaled upon the rigid digits Sophie held firm between her thighs. Rachel’s palms pressed down against Sophie’s chest, kneading and squeezing her lover’s breasts. She plied taut nipples between her fingers and felt her own wetness increase. This was her new favourite position, of which there had been many.

  “Don’t move,” Rachel pleaded, her eyes rolling and flickering closed as she felt Sophie hit that sweet spot. She clenched her knees tighter to Sophie’s slim frame, holding her hostage as she used every inch of those dexterous fingers to her advantage.

  Sophie’s face was in awe of her as she watched Rachel take what she needed. A sheen of sweat glistened across her skin and sparkled under the dimming light. Tiny droplets making their way down her brow to drip onto Sophie’s hot skin. She was sure she heard it sizzle. Full breasts bounced gently. It was the image that Sophie enjoyed most.

  Rachel was going to come; she was clear about that. She knew that Sophie had felt it, the natural tightening around her fingers and the added lubrication, but watching Sophie as her muscles tightened, her back arching as she cried out, was almost enough to push her over the edge again.

  Rachel’s eyes locked onto her as she lowered down to share a kiss. Her palms moved up, resting either side of Sophie’s head as she began to move again, thrusting more powerfully than before as the echoes of a second orgasm reverberated off the walls. “Don’t hold back,” Sophie whispered breathlessly against Rachel’s lips.

  “I won’t,” she all but hissed. She kept her eyes locked firmly on Sophie. Her palms reached for her cheeks, and she held Sophie’s face in place. “I love how you feel inside me.” Her movements stuttered. Sophie shifted her thumb and pressed harder against Rachel’s most sensitive spot. “Fuck.” Her breath caught in her throat. Sophie’s right arm reached around her waist, pulling her closer, fingers splayed, holding her as she increased the pressure and edged her into one orgasm after another. Rachel felt Sophie’s grip on her tighten as her body contorted, twisting and bending at will as pure pleasure coursed through her cells, searching out every nerve ending before finally she sagged against Sophie, bringing their mouths together again. Sloppy, intense kisses deepened and kept their arousal spiking. Sophie wanted nothing more than to gorge herself on this sweating, heaving mess of beautiful flesh.

  Rachel pulled away, smiling at her. Her left hand rested still on Sophie’s bony shoulder. Her other hand dipped between them, between her legs. She found herself and began to slowly tease. Sophie’s eyes dropped lower, enticed and entranced by her insatiable lover. “You do this to me,” Rachel said, her voice husky and sexier than Sophie had ever heard it. “Just you.” She brought her fingers to her lips and sucked them clean. “Taste me,” she whispered, leaning forward to kiss her lover.

  Sophie moaned out loud, her lover’s essence invading her senses. “Come up here.” she demanded, breaking the kiss and sliding lower into the bed. Rachel rose up to meet her, her pelvis thrusting forward at the first touch of Sophie’s soft lips as she kissed her right there, between her thighs, exploring Rachel with every featherlight sweep of her tongue. Sophie’s palms gripped rounded buttocks, pulling her closer, always closer.

  ~Grave~

  Rachel rested her head against her lover’s chest as they lay together in the dark. “What are you thinking about?” she asked dreamily. Fully sated and relaxed, she could envisage a life like this.

  “You, us,” Sophie replied.

  “Hmm, what about us?”

  Sophie let her fingers pull gently through Rachel’s hair. “I dunno, just…I’m seeing a doctor.”

  “What kind of doctor?”

  “The head doctor kind.” She felt better saying it out loud.

  Rachel tried not to react. She’d been waiting for this moment, when Whitton would finally let Sophie deal with the shit storm that they had been through.

  “You don’t seem surprised?”

  Thinking carefully, Rachel replied, “I’m just glad that you felt you could tell me.”

  “I wasn’t going to…I just decided then that I should. Dr. Westbrook says that we should talk…You know, about…”

  “Anthony?”

  Sophie nodded. “Yeah,” she whispered. Rachel moved, leaning up on her elbow to face Sophie, who searched Rachel’s face. “I see you…when I’m at crime scenes…when there is…” She swallowed and closed her eyes. When they opened again and found the green looking back at her, she continued. “I keep seeing you, lifeless. When there is a body, it’s you that my brain processes.”

  “What does Dr. Westbrook say?” Rachel’s fingertips stroked lovingly around Sophie’s stomach.

  “She says I need to forgive myself, that it wasn’t my fault and I need to accept that.”

  “And you don’t?”

  Whitton shook her head. “No, I should have…” She blinked back tears. “I should have worked it out faster, I should have…I should have read the clues better and…”

  “Do you know what I was thinking in those moments?”

  Sophie shook her head, unsure if she even wanted to hear it, but she deserved to. She deserved to hear how she had let her lover down.

  Rachel took her hand and interlocked their fingers. “I was thinking, if anyone is going to save me, it’s going to be Sophie. I never had any doubts that you would come. Even when I felt his hands around…”

  “Shit!” Sophie cried out as the tears finally flowed. She knew what Anthony had done, of course she did, she had read all the reports, but hearing it from her lover’s own lips was just too much.

  Rachel gripped her hand tighter. “I don’t blame you; I blame him. I blame my parents, the boy at his school who hurt him. I blame a multitude of people, but never, not once have I ever blamed you, Sweetheart.” Pulling their joined hands towards her, she kissed them. “You’re my hero. My person, the only one that I can truly just let go with. Anthony was sick, depraved and mentally unstable. He is the one that hurt me, not you. Never you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chief Inspector Adam Turner’s office was cool. A small air con unit had been wheeled in earlier in preparation for the meeting. Whitton sat opposite with a mug of coffee in her hand, wondering why Dale had been looking at her oddly earlier. Two flat tan-coloured files lay in her lap, and she fingered the corner of one
where it curled slightly.

  Looking around the office, she realised how sterile her own was. His was filled with photographs of a wife and three children. Even the family dog had made it into a frame and was given pride of place alongside the others on a shelf just behind him. There was another shelf full of law books. She wondered if he ever read them or if they were just there for show. Stifling a yawn as his monotone voice waffled on to whoever it was that he was speaking to, she tried not to listen in. It wasn’t work related, that much was clear. She lifted the mug and took a swig as she waited for her superior to finish his phone call.

  She was still getting used to having her own office. She hadn’t asked for it and she was still unsure if she even liked it. She spent most of her time in the main office like always. Maybe that was why she had done nothing to make it more her own. It had a desk, some filing cabinets, and three chairs. The shelves were empty but for the piles of cold cases files that she kept to hand. Any quiet moment she would spend going over one of them, hoping maybe she would spot something that was missed before, but it rarely happened.

  Turner put the phone down at the same time Sophie rested her mug back on the desk. She fidgeted and got herself settled in her seat once more before clearing her throat.

  “Sir.”

  “Sorry about that,” he said, indicating the call. “Thanks for being so prompt.” He sat back in his chair and looked at her. “So, where are we on the Barton case?”

  “As of now, it’s all wrapped up on our end. Bowen and Branson did a sound job of tracking down the CCTV to create a well-put-together case against Trevor Hayes and Tyler Jacobs. Both have form for violence.”

  “Right, and the Doc confirms everything?”

  Whitton nodded. “Yep, DNA confirms that both were there at the time. Barton’s blood was found on a pair of trainers and a jacket worn by Jacobs. Hayes admitted to being there and helping Jacobs to get rid of the knife.”

 

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