Shattered: a gripping crime thriller

by Heleyne Hammersley

  ‘Feminist but not a lesbian?’

  ‘Ha! Hardly.’

  ‘Not even when she was younger. A dalliance before she met your father.’

  ‘As far as I know my mother was very heterosexual. I’m not so sure about my father however.’ This thought seemed to amuse her, but Kate sensed that it might be some kind of family joke and let it pass.

  Sadie fiddled with the hair elastic, wrapping it round two fingers then pulling them free before repeating the movement on the other hand.

  ‘Can I ask you again about what happened when you got to your mother’s house? You said you let yourself in with your own key, is that correct?’

  ‘One of the joys of elderly parents,’ Sadie said with a wry smile. ‘Being constantly on call in case of falls or heart attacks. I’m sorry if I sound callous, I don’t really think Mum’s death has sunk in. I keep expecting her to ring or to pop round.’ Her eyes welled with unshed tears and she blinked rapidly.

  ‘Nobody else had a key. A neighbour maybe?’

  ‘Only me and Dad.’

  Kate nodded, watching as Hollis scribbled down this information.

  ‘And you went straight upstairs?’

  A nod. The woman’s lower lip had a slight tremble.

  ‘You didn’t notice anything unusual? No sense that somebody else had been in the house, nothing out of place?’

  ‘Not until I saw the broken mirror. I thought she might have had an accident. A fall. I heard a tap dripping in the bathroom, so I went in and I saw… I saw her in the bath.’ Grabbing at Hollis’s empty mug, Sadie stood up and went to the sink, keeping her back to Kate and Hollis as she ran the tap.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kate said. ‘I understand how difficult this must be. Just a couple more questions. What was your first thought when you saw your mother in the bath?’

  Sadie turned and looked at her as though she’d just spat in her face. ‘My first thought? What sort of a question is that?’

  ‘I’m just trying to get an impression of the scene,’ Kate said, keeping her voice neutral.

  ‘My first thought was that my mum was dead.’

  ‘Did you think it was suicide?’

  ‘I don’t know. I could see the… the cuts in her wrists but it was like my brain couldn’t make sense of it. I walked further into the room, trying to see her face, to see if she was still alive. I didn’t want to touch her. Then I saw the wound in her neck. She couldn’t have done that to herself, she just couldn’t. I ran downstairs and called 999. I waited in the kitchen because I couldn’t bear to look at her anymore.’

  Sadie reached over and picked up her glass before fumbling with the catch on the dishwasher. She couldn’t get it to open and she looked round helplessly as though she didn’t quite know where she was or how she’d got there.

  ‘Here, let me.’ Hollis stood, opened the dishwasher door and pulled out the top tray, placing the glass neatly on a rack. He did the same with his own mug, but Kate shook her head, she hadn’t finished.

  ‘Sadie, can you think of anybody who might want to harm your mother? I don’t mean in general – people who didn’t like her politics – I mean a personal dislike. Did she have any specific enemies?’

  ‘Only my father,’ the woman said, leaning on the sink. She spluttered a shaky half-laugh. ‘That’s a joke by the way. He’d never hurt anybody. I really can’t think of anyone.’

  Kate drained her mug. It was time for the important question, the one that might indicate to a bright woman that her mother wasn’t the only victim.

  ‘Sadie, does the name Houghton mean anything to you. Peter Houghton or Eleanor Houghton?’

  She nodded. ‘He’s the man with the lorry business. Is Eleanor his wife?’

  ‘You don’t know them personally. Did they have any connection with your mother?’

  She just looked blank.

  ‘What about Olivia Thornbury?’

  ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’

  Kate saw realisation shadow Sadie’s face a half second before she exploded. ‘Shit! Mum’s not the first, is she? Whoever killed her has done this before!’

  Kate glanced at Hollis who was hovering next to the sink as if uncertain what to do or where to be.

  ‘Honestly, Sadie. We don’t know. But you might be able to help us to find out.’

  22

  Medical records might as well have been written in a foreign language as far as Kate was concerned. She recognised the names of some common ailments and a range of drugs, but the language seemed designed to baffle and confuse. Olivia Thornbury’s records showed that she’d been prescribed diazepam for muscle spasms, exactly as her partner had described. There was no mention of depression or anxiety and no suggestion that she’d been referred to local mental health services, either NHS or private. Scrolling back further through the PDF document that the GP had provided, Kate found the preliminary diagnosis of arthritis and the confirmatory X-ray and MRI scans.

  She opened up Eleanor Houghton’s file. Again, nothing especially surprising. Antibiotics for a chest infection the previous winter, diazepam for ‘general anxiety’ and painkillers for an arthritic knee but, again, no referral to any other service. Peter Houghton’s records were even less helpful – it seemed he hardly ever visited his GP apart from a check-up every two years which revealed slightly elevated blood pressure and moderately high cholesterol both of which were treated with appropriate medication.

  Kate looked up from her computer screen to check on her colleagues. Barratt and O’Connor were absent, still interviewing Liv Thornbury’s climbing colleagues, she hoped. Cooper was poring over CCTV footage and Hollis was sitting with his feet up on his desk flicking through the contents of the slim cardboard folder which contained the report of Julia Sullivan’s car accident. She’d given it a quick scan but left Dan to pick out the details and study the photographs, trusting him to find anything helpful.

  An email pinged into her inbox. More detail from Julia Sullivan’s post-mortem. The cuts to her throat and wrists were consistent with a slim shard of the mirror found at the scene. There were no cuts or abrasions to her fingers, indicating that she hadn’t cut her own wrists or throat. Nothing that Kate hadn’t expected. There was also evidence of a healed fracture to the side of her skull. Not recent.

  Sighing heavily, Kate scrolled through the rest of the report but there was nothing to move them forwards. It seemed likely, in Kate’s mind, that Julia had been drugged, probably using a spiked alcoholic drink and then, when she was drowsy and malleable, stripped and placed in the bath. She probably didn’t have much idea what was happening to her – at least, that’s what Kate hoped.

  ‘Dan,’ she called over to Hollis. ‘Anything interesting?’

  Hollis looked up and pinched the bridge of his nose with his finger and thumb, scrunching up his eyes. Kate had a suspicion that he needed reading glasses, but vanity was still winning the battle with practicality.

  ‘Nope. Looks like a straightforward RTA. A delivery van pulled out of a side street on a green light, Julia Sullivan hadn’t seen the red light ahead of her and carried on straight into its path. She was taken to the DRI; the other driver was unhurt but a bit shaken. Seems like driver error on Julia’s part. No charges brought.’ He looked back at the paper on top of the pile in the folder. ‘There are no medical reports here, so I don’t know the extent of her injuries.’

  ‘Is it possible she had a head injury?’ Kate asked. ‘There’s mention of a healed fracture in the PM report.’

  Hollis removed a photograph from the pile and passed it to Kate. ‘I’d be surprised if she hadn’t. The driver’s airbag deployed but even so…’

  Kate studied the image of a badly damaged blue hatchback concertinaed up against the cab of a green van. The car looked like it had rammed straight into the side of the other vehicle with some force. ‘Bloody hell,’ she hissed. ‘She was lucky to survive.’

  Hence the religious fervour. She probably realised that she’d been incredibly fortuna
te and was looking for a reason. God fit the bill perfectly and Cora Greaves had been on hand for guidance and support. Kate checked her watch. It was nearly lunchtime. A good excuse for getting away from the frustrations of her computer.

  ‘Sam, got anything?’

  Cooper shook her head without turning round. ‘Bugger all. I’ve been working on the traffic cameras closest to Julia Sullivan’s house but there’s nothing within half a mile. Thought I might see the same car going in both directions, maybe in the early hours but no joy.’

  ‘Have a break. Eat. Coffee,’ Kate instructed but she wasn’t sure Sam would bother. Once she was deep in the digital world, Cooper tended to forget about trivialities such as food and drink.

  ‘Dan and I are going out again.’

  Hollis looked over at her, eyebrows raised. ‘We are?’

  ‘Yep. I can’t ignore the religious link. I know it’s unlikely, but I think we should head over to Turton to speak to Eleanor and Peter’s vicar. He wasn’t around last time I was there. Lunch is your shout,’ she added with a smile.

  She logged off from her computer and grabbed her handbag from the back of her chair.

  St Peter’s church occupied an elevated position overlooking much of the village of Turton. Built from solid-looking pale limestone it could be seen from most of the surrounding hamlets and no doubt the church bells could be heard for miles when it came time to summon the pious to worship. Kate had never been a churchgoer. Neither of her parents had been religious although her mum’s funeral had been conducted in Thorpe parish church, much to her confusion. She and her sister Karen had agreed on a humanist service followed by a cremation for their father. It had seemed more honest somehow.

  The vicarage was further down the hill, nestling in a small stand of trees and beech hedges, and was much more modern than the church. It resembled the red-brick semi-detached house that Kate had grown up in on the Crosslands Estate, 1950s optimism combined with the hangover of post-war frugality. Kate had rung the bell twice on her previous visit to the village but there had been nobody home.

  ‘I was picturing something a bit more chocolate boxish,’ Hollis said as he parked next to a twenty-year-old Fiat that looked like the rust was the only thing holding the bodywork together.

  ‘Me too,’ Kate said. Even though she’d grown up in the area and spent a lot of weekends cycling the backroads, she couldn’t recall having seen Turton Vicarage before. ‘Nice spot though.’

  Hollis led the way across a mossy tarmac drive to the front door of the vicarage but, before he could knock, a voice came from behind them.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Kate turned. The man who’d shouted was probably in his mid-fifties and his question seemed to have been genuine judging by his open expression and wide smile. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt he didn’t look much like Kate had imagined and the pair of golden Labradors straining at their leads added to the suggestion of a country landowner rather than a church minister.

  ‘Reverend Kevin Preston?’ Kate asked, taking a step forwards then hastily retreating as one of the retrievers lunged, huge pink tongue swinging in her direction.

  ‘Down, Karla,’ the man said but the dog didn’t seem impressed by the command. The second one seemed to take it as encouragement and made its own bid to jump up at Kate.

  ‘Inca! Down! Ignore them,’ he said. ‘They just want to lick everybody to death. I’m Kevin Preston. What can I do for you?’

  Kate introduced herself and Hollis and explained that they were hoping for some background on the Houghtons.

  ‘Bad do, that,’ Preston said with typical Yorkshire understatement. ‘I should have seen it coming.’ He reined in both dogs and got them to sit at his feet. ‘I had no idea that either of them felt so low.’

  Clearly the man had taken the ‘suicide’ at face value and hadn’t listened to any local gossip to the contrary.

  ‘We’d just like to follow up. Get a sense of both of them, see if we can work out what happened.’ Kate was deliberately vague, no point in putting the man on his guard by mentioning possible enemies at this stage.

  ‘I was about to go up to the church. I need to do some preparation for a christening service at the weekend. I’m happy to talk to you both there. It’s open, if you want to head up, I’ll just give these two monsters a drink and meet you there.’

  Ten minutes later Kate slipped into a pew, glad of the shady cool of the church interior. The walk had only taken five minutes, but the sun was high and there was little shade on the lane. Hollis sat on the opposite side of the aisle, looking as uncomfortably hot as Kate felt. The church interior was beautiful with a row of arches either side of a central nave leading to a chancel lit by three stained-glass windows. The wooden pews were a deep reddish-brown, burnished by the backs and bottoms of centuries of parishioners, and the altar, covered in a simple deep-blue cloth, was visible from all angles.

  ‘What a lovely old building,’ Kate said to the vicar as he pushed open the huge oak door and stepped inside.

  Preston smiled. ‘It is, isn’t it? It’s one of the oldest buildings in South Yorkshire, built on a Saxon shell. If you look, you’ll see that the arches on the north aisle are different from those on the south.’

  Kate followed his pointing finger. He was right. One side had rounded arches while, on the other, they rose to wishbone points. The difference between this and the small terraced house that was home to the Church of the Right Hand was stark.

  ‘Eleanor Houghton used to do guided tours for the local primary schools. There’s a lot of history here, masons’ marks, a lepers’ squint and some fascinating tomb markers in the chancel. She really enjoyed showing it all to the kiddies.’

  ‘Did you know Eleanor and Peter well?’ Kate asked.

  ‘They were already churchgoers when I took over from my predecessor,’ Preston said. ‘I inherited his house and his flock when I took over ten years ago. Eleanor was one of the first to really make an effort to welcome me. She knocked on my door one afternoon with a Victoria sponge and a four-pack of chilled lager. I couldn’t say no to that, could I?’

  ‘Not really,’ Kate said. She was surprised though. Nothing she’d heard about Eleanor Houghton suggested she was the type to enjoy an afternoon drinking session with a strange man. She wondered what her husband had thought about the gesture.

  ‘What about Peter? Was he as welcoming?’

  ‘In his way,’ Preston said. ‘He was more reserved but a lot of people in the village tended to follow his lead, so I was relieved when he invited me round to dinner – Eleanor’s suggestion I suppose.’

  ‘Follow his lead, how?’ Hollis asked.

  Preston turned, frowning as though he’d forgotten that the DC was there. ‘He was a wealthy man with some influence over parish matters. People often wanted to curry favour with him, keep on his good side. You’ll have heard about him buying land around here?’

  Hollis nodded.

  ‘I think some villagers thought of him as a benevolent squire because he was well known in the Doncaster area.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any evidence of benevolence,’ Hollis said.

  Preston shrugged and began walking down the central aisle. ‘I’m just explaining what people saw,’ he said. ‘To be honest, I knew Eleanor much better. I didn’t have a lot to do with Peter apart from occasionally asking him for a donation. And then he always wanted to know what I’d done with the money – to make sure he’d got good value.’

  There was a tension in the man’s back and a clipped tone to his words which suggested to Kate that he hadn’t liked Peter Houghton very much. She stood up and followed him towards the chancel, gesturing for Hollis to stay where he was.

  ‘I take it you weren’t a fan?’ Kate said as Preston reached the altar. He turned and smiled. His face, lit in a dozen or more colours by the sun through the stained glass, was hard to read.

  ‘It’s not for me to pass comment,’ he said. ‘He came to church. Was sometimes generous w
ith his donations. Kept himself to himself.’

  ‘What about his wife. Was he strict with her?’

  Preston hung his head and took a deep breath. ‘You’ve obviously been speaking to people around the village. Gossip and speculation. Places like this thrive on it.’

  ‘So, there’s nothing to the suggestion that Peter kept Eleanor on a tight chain?’

  The vicar picked imaginary specks of dust from the cloth covering the altar. ‘She changed in the time that I knew her. Eleanor became more reserved, I suppose. She still made time for the children, still did the tours but she seemed worried.’

  ‘Recently?’

  Preston nodded. ‘I think so. We spoke at length two weeks ago when she was helping with the flowers for a wedding. I got the sense that she was deeply troubled, but she wouldn’t give me any details.’

  ‘Was it Peter? Was he violent? Controlling?’

  Preston shook his head. ‘Nothing like that. It was to do with her past. She told me that she’d recently reconnected with somebody she knew years ago when she was a different person. That’s how she described her past self – a different person.’

  ‘Was she being blackmailed, do you think? Did they know something that might upset her relationship with Peter?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Preston said, rearranging a handful of flowers in a glass vase. ‘I tried to ask her about this person, where she knew them from, who they were but she clammed up.’

  ‘Protecting her privacy,’ Kate speculated.

  ‘It wasn’t that,’ the vicar said. ‘The last time I spoke to Eleanor Houghton I got the impression that she was genuinely frightened of somebody, but it wasn’t Peter. It was someone from her past.’

  23

  Anna Cohen’s mobile rang just as she was putting on her suit jacket. Glancing at the screen she finished shrugging on the second sleeve before picking up the device to take the call.