by Roz Watkins
‘Come on, Jai. Cops stick together. Craig didn’t hurl himself at a suspect with a gun, and there was no dog pee.’
Once Craig had changed, we bundled Norwood up the snowy lane and into Jai’s car, and set off back to the Station. I sat in the back with a silent Norwood, and Jai sat in the front with an equally silent Craig.
When we reached the main road, all our phones started ringing and buzzing. I had a batch of increasingly frenzied messages from Fiona. She was fine. But Richard was after me, and he wasn’t happy.
*
Back at the Station, Fiona was waiting for us with mugs of coffee. To my relief, Richard had gone home.
Craig excused himself. He hadn’t looked at me since I’d given him Norwood’s trousers.
We trailed into my room and I collapsed into my chair. Even Jai sank gratefully into my guest chair and sprawled with arms and legs apart.
Fiona stood by the window, eyes flitting to and fro. ‘Oh my God. What happened? I was so worried. I turned back. The weather was awful and then the woman in the shop said Nick Norwood was unstable and liked to wave guns around. But then when I got back, you’d all gone missing.’
We gave her a quick run-down of the situation. Rabid dogs, gun-wielding psychos. No dog pee.
‘You did the right thing, Fiona.’ I gulped coffee. ‘I’m so sorry I snapped at you earlier. I’d had a difficult conversation with Craig.’
‘Don’t be silly. I know what Craig’s like. I’m just grateful you came after me.’
‘I hope you’re not picking up bad habits from your seniors,’ Jai said. ‘Stick to the rules, that’s what we need to do.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That is true. Really. At least you had the sense not to go to the house. He didn’t make a great host.’
‘Why was he so furious?’
‘He was angry about the rumours that he killed Scarlett,’ I said.
‘There’s even a chance he killed Phil Thornton,’ Jai said. ‘Something dodgy could have gone on with the heart transplant. What if Norwood’s daughter came into the hospital still alive, but was later declared brain-dead? Norwood could have found out something and blamed Phil.’
‘We need to look into the circumstances surrounding that transplant,’ I said. ‘There are so many checks and balances. If something dodgy happened, there must be at least one corrupt doctor. But Phil Thornton had money. He could have paid. And I suppose people will do virtually anything to save their own child, even at the cost of another child.’
‘But Dr Gibson’s notes?’ Fiona said.
‘Someone could have faked those notes,’ I said. ‘Or blackmailed Gibson. Obviously Norwood knew about the circumstances of the drowning, since he was there. Very few people knew about that.’ I hugged my coffee mug. ‘But it doesn’t seem right. It’s too intricate – not his style. And why would he frame Abbie?’
Nobody answered.
‘Can you check out some other stuff too?’ I asked. ‘Norwood said a couple of things that made my ears prick.’
Fiona grabbed a notepad.
‘Norwood said his wife had shared a lot on Facebook. Can you take another look? We can get permission from Facebook but see if you can charm her into letting us see her private stuff. It’ll be much quicker.’
‘No problem.’
‘Also, Norwood said he and Scarlett’s mother hadn’t been interested in knowing who the recipient of Scarlett’s heart was. They hadn’t exchanged cards. But Abbie’s family had a card, which we’d assumed was from the donor family. Remember?’
‘Yes,’ Fiona said. ‘We don’t know who you are and we can’t tell you who we are, but it is of comfort to us that something good has come out of this terrible tragedy.’
‘That’s the one. You’ve got a good memory. If that was from Abbie’s donor’s family, then her donor wasn’t Scarlett Norwood. Which ties in with this whole damn thing being a set-up.’
*
I arrived home feeling as if I could collapse and fall asleep right there in the hallway. One more day and I’d be off the case. One more day to stack up enough questions that they wouldn’t just charge Abbie. I was sure now that she hadn’t done it. That she’d been framed. But who by?
I wondered if Richard had found out about us taking Gran. Maybe I could avoid him. I could surely keep a low profile for one day, and confront him when I got back from Switzerland. Forgiveness was always easier than permission.
Hamlet was in battle gear, with a fully-fluffed-up coat and bottle-brush tail. He stood stiffly with a leg at each corner and stared accusingly at me.
‘Oh God, Hamlet, you haven’t been fighting with the local gang-cats or bullying next door’s Great Dane again, have you?’
He ignored me. His puffed up winter-woollies made him appear almost spherical. Or possibly that was the amount of food the neighbour had given him. But he definitely looked edgy. I noticed the lily smell again, and turned abruptly to look at the front door. There was nothing protruding through the letter-box. So where was the smell coming from? A slither of anxiety.
I sniffed Hamlet, in case it was the neighbour’s perfume sticking to his fur, but he just smelt of wet cat. Something twitched in my stomach.
The boiler was clunking from the kitchen. It had an extensive repertoire of noises but wasn’t so good on the heating side of things, and should probably have been condemned years ago. If only I could get round to it, I’d complain to the landlord. He could sort it when he fixed the windows.
I nipped upstairs to the bathroom. Something on the landing made me pause. A bad feeling. A stronger smell of lilies. I wanted to check the rooms. The urge was fiercer than it had been for a long time. I decided to poke my head into my bedroom, with the excuse of getting a warmer jumper.
I looked at the door – old wood with peeling paint – and didn’t want to open it. My stomach fluttered again. I was being ridiculous. I nudged it open with my foot and walked in.
Something was there. Something familiar. Dreamt about so many times.
27.
The room seemed to go black. I gasped and stepped back, crashing against the wall. Squeezed my eyes shut, clamped my hand over my mouth, tried not to scream. My heart pummelled my ribcage.
I collapsed onto the floor and sat against the wall, eyes still closed. It couldn’t be real. I’d imagined it. But I couldn’t make myself look again.
I tried to breathe into my stomach. Slow and steady.
I opened my eyes a slit and looked towards the ceiling.
It was real.
It was hanging.
Hanging from the centre of the room.
My gaze crept up to the feet, stalled and then continued to the face.
It was a dummy. A shop-fitter’s dummy. A young woman.
Her neck was in a noose, and the noose was tied to the light fitting.
I dragged myself into a standing position. Took a step closer. My breath seemed to tear at my throat.
They’d cut the dummy’s hair. Like the doll through the door.
It looked like Carrie when she’d hanged herself.
I touched her. She swung slightly.
I burst into tears, ran from the room, crashed down the stairs, and grabbed my phone.
*
‘In there.’ I shoved Jai into my bedroom, not wanting to see her again.
‘Jesus Christ.’ He took a step forward. ‘Who in God’s name has done that?’
‘I don’t know.’ My voice sounded distant, and weak like a small child’s.
‘We’ll get them, Meg. They won’t get away with this.’
Jai touched the dummy. ‘There’s a note.’
I hovered in the doorway, staring at the floor.
Jai turned to me, his expression full of concern. ‘It’s tied around her neck.’
‘I didn’t look that closely. What does it say.’
Jai coughed. ‘It’s not very nice, Meg. It says You deserved to lose her.’
‘Oh.’ I felt a deep heaviness inside, that someo
ne could despise me this much.
Jai moved away from the dummy and shuffled me towards the stairs. ‘Come on, let’s call uniform and get some tea.’
‘I feel numb,’ I said. ‘I can’t believe someone would do that.’
We walked into the kitchen. It was freezing. The window overlooking the garden was wide open. I nodded towards it. ‘I’ve been on at the bloody landlord about these windows.’
‘You sit down,’ Jai said. ‘I’ll call it in and make tea.’
I smiled a thank you and sat at the kitchen table with my head in my hands.
‘They really hate me.’ I sounded pitiful.
‘They’re bat-shit crazy, Meg.’ Jai handed me tea. ‘It’s not personal. Go into the other room. There’s penguins wandering around in here.’
I went to the living room and sat in a kind of stupor with Hamlet, while Jai organised everything. Uniform turned up, prints were taken, the dummy was removed and taken away, the window was nailed shut, I was asked some questions. I responded to people as best I could, but mainly sat, stared into space, and stroked Hamlet. If they’d wanted to do the worst thing in the world to me without actually hurting anyone, this was it. I felt sick that someone would do it.
I realised I was still scared of having a relapse. My mind flitted back to Manchester two years ago. Walking into the apartment by the river. One of the posh ones, kitted out all New York Industrial style, not the kind of place you expect anything too bad to happen. The phone call had seemed like guilty parents worrying unnecessarily. Fifteen-year-old daughter home alone, can’t seem to get in touch with her or her friends, please could you take a look. General police grumpiness about rich people expecting us to run around after them, but I was in the area.
And the thing about those apartments is they have good, strong beams.
She was hanging from the central one in the living room. And it was just like Carrie.
And I’d realised I’d never really dealt with finding her.
And everything had gone to shit for a while. Time off, counselling, guilt, suicidal thoughts. But I was over that now. I’d made a new start back in Derbyshire. I would not be pushed back into that.
‘I phoned your mum,’ Jai said, when it was all under control. ‘You’re staying with her tonight.’
‘No, Jai, I – ’
‘You’re staying there and having the day off tomorrow. Have you seen what time it is?’
‘Late?’
I grabbed a few clothes and a sleeping bag, and stuffed an unwilling Hamlet into his carrier. I looked up at Jai, who’d appeared in the doorway. ‘This is scaring me now,’ I said. ‘This isn’t sane. What might they do next?’
*
I sat at the kitchen table while Mum bustled around making tea. I couldn’t even face going through to see Gran. I was already too close to the edge.
Mum put a mug in front of me and sat opposite. ‘What exactly happened? What did they do?’
I saw it again, hanging from the ceiling. ‘I told you about the doll the other day . . . That was clearly just a taster. Someone had rigged up a shop-fitter’s dummy to look like Carrie and hung it from the light-fitting in my bedroom, with a note around its neck. So I could re-live the joy of finding my dead sister all over again.’
Mum reached and put her hand on my arm. ‘Oh my goodness, that’s terrible. What did the note say?’
‘Something like: You deserved to lose her.’
Mum’s face was white. ‘Do you think it’s Life Line?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is it about us taking Gran to Switzerland? They know about it, don’t they? And it’s all my fault for telling Sheila. Oh, how stupid of me!’
‘It’s not your fault. Nobody would have expected them to do something like this. They’re not rational. What kind of person hangs a dummy from the ceiling?’
She touched my arm again. ‘How awful for you to come home to that.’
‘Yeah. I’d just stopped feeling the need to check my rooms for dead family members hanging from the rafters, and this happens.’ I gave her an attempt at a smile. ‘How is Gran anyway?’
‘Nowhere near as perky. That must have been her final burst of life. I’ve still been taking her out for a walk every afternoon though. We go along to the shops and she looks at the adverts in the window while I get the paper.’
‘That’s nice. I like looking at those ads. Random guinea pigs, yoga lessons, old washing machines. I sometimes wonder if it’s all code for drugs and strange sexual offerings.’
‘Oh, honestly, Meg. Anyway, your gran’s very brave, but she’s had enough.’
‘At least she’s getting out a bit.’
Mum nodded. ‘I can’t quite think about . . . But we do what we can while we can.’ She pushed her chair back as if to mark an end to that conversation. ‘Is your landlord sorting out your windows?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Are you going to take the day off? Bring your time off forward a day. Spend some time with your gran.’
‘I’d better not,’ I said. ‘This case is really tricky. I have to go in. But keep all your doors locked, won’t you? Even when you’re inside.’
‘Yes, yes, I will. And you be careful too, Meg. You work too hard.’
‘I’ll be fine. Work helps me forget.’
‘And I’m sure someone else could help me take Gran if . . . ’
‘No. It’s not fair to get anyone else involved. It has to be just me, you and Gran. I’ll be there.’
I reached to stroke Hamlet. He’d ignored his posh bed and settled himself in a cardboard box which was on its way to the recycling. I noticed something on his collar that I hadn’t seen before. A tiny silver barrel. I peered at it. The top was screwed on. I unscrewed it.
A piece of paper was curled up inside. I fished it out and read it.
I’m such a friendly cat. It would be terrible if something happened to me.
28.
I spent the night in Mum’s spare room, clutching Hamlet to me. I slept badly, consumed with fury; Hamlet appeared to sleep very well despite my needy attentions. If anyone hurt Hamlet, I’d probably end up in prison, because I’d hunt them down and assassinate them. Although I was (of course) glad things had changed since the days when the police rammed suspects’ heads into walls, it sometimes felt like we were playing a game where only one side stuck to the rules.
I woke early and wondered if I should take an extra day off after all. Not go in. Avoid Richard. Leave them to it and spend the time with Gran. It made sense. What difference would one day make anyway?
But I couldn’t bear to let Abbie down. What if they charged her? What if she’d been framed and I was the only one who realised it? I flipped to wondering if we could put Gran’s trip back a while. But I couldn’t do that either. Whatever I did, I was going to end up feeling guilty, as usual. At least it distracted me from my worry about the threat to Hamlet.
I rose and made tea, and sat in Mum’s kitchen with Hamlet on my knee, staring out of the window at Mum’s garden. The trees were outlined with frost, making everything look pale and perfect.
Mum appeared in a dressing gown. ‘Change your mind and stay here today?’
‘Oh God, Mum, I’d like to, but isn’t that just giving in to these people? I won’t be a victim.’
Hamlet jumped from my knee and sidled up to Mum. She responded to his mind-control by putting down more food.
‘I’m sure one extra day off work doesn’t give you official victim status, Meg. You’ve had a nasty shock.’
‘But it’s a critical time with this case.’
‘The young girl whose heart made her kill her father?’
I put my mug down with a thud. ‘You actually buy that? Is that what you’ve read in the papers?’
‘They’re talking about it everywhere, love. How a heart could make someone do that. People are fascinated. I mean . . . it’s terrible for the poor family of course.’
‘You’d never have believed some
thing like that when Dad was still around.’
‘Well, he’s not, is he? Maybe there is an essence of a person in the heart. People have always felt that the heart’s where our strong emotions come from. There’s more to life than can be explained by science.’
‘But it’s not been verified, has it?’
‘By science, you mean?’
‘Yes, by science.’ I stood and brushed cat hairs from my knee. ‘I have to go in. This is a ten-year-old girl we’re talking about. A terrified little girl who’s already lost her sister and her father, and who’s somehow been made to think her new heart’s turned her into a murderer. If there’s even a chance someone’s done that to her deliberately . . . ’
‘You don’t think she did it? I thought she was found with the knife in her hand. And arterial blood all over her clothes.’
‘You’re bang up on the case, aren’t you Mum?’
‘No need to get difficult. I just think you should have a day off. I’m sure your colleagues are well capable of managing without you for a day or two.’
‘I have to go in. I won’t be bullied. Are you going to be okay?’
‘We’re fine. I won’t let Hamlet out, I’ll keep the doors locked, and I’ll have a gun trained on the window.’
‘Nothing much would surprise me about you any more.’ I leant and kissed her, reached and picked up Hamlet and gave him a long hug, which he didn’t much appreciate. ‘Tell you what – I’ll pop back for half an hour, at about four, so we can take Gran out together.’
I took one last look at the pair of them, tucked my guilt into its usual spot, and left the house, locking the door behind me.
*
Richard must have been looking out of his window, ready to pounce. He intercepted me on my way in and beckoned me into his room.
Fear and panic that he might know what I was doing with Gran pushed me onto the offensive. ‘You’ve heard what happened at my house last night.’
He stayed standing but positioned himself behind his desk and the file-barricade, arms folded. He didn’t ask me to sit in the chair. ‘Yes. I didn’t expect you in this morning.’
‘What are we doing about them?’
