by Bill Rogers
‘You’re wasting your time,’ she said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Jo.
‘I’m a confirmed atheist,’ the woman replied. ‘Beyond persuasion. Impervious to faith-based arguments and believe me, I’ve heard them all. You’d be wasting your time and mine. Good day.’
She stepped back and began to close the door. Jo lifted her hood with one hand and held up her ID with the other.
‘Police!’ she said.
The door opened again. The frown deepened.
‘Police? Why didn’t you say so?’
‘Mrs Clements?’ said Jo.
‘Yes. Only it’s Wilkins now. I reverted to my maiden name.’
Jo put her card away. ‘Could we come in, please, Miss Wilkins? It’s regarding your daughter, Elaine.’
Helen Wilkins’s eyes stared blankly back at her. Jo wondered if she’d even heard what had been said. Then her face seemed to collapse in on itself, and her shoulders sagged. Suddenly she seemed years older. She turned away, leaving the door open behind her.
They wiped the soles of their shoes on the doormat, then debated whether or not to remove their soaking wet Avenger jackets and hang them over the newel post.
‘We could always give ourselves a shake instead?’ whispered Carly Whittle. She pointed to the black Labrador, head cocked to one side, watching them from the kitchen doorway.
‘Best not,’ said Jo. ‘Not without an invite.’
They found their host seated in a leather armchair, staring into the flames of a roaring wood burner.
‘Miss Wilkins?’ said Jo.
She turned her head to look up at them. ‘What the hell do you want after all this time?’ She looked and sounded more weary than angry.
‘Is there somewhere we could hang our jackets?’ said Jo.
Helen Wilkins cast her eyes over their dripping apparel as though registering it for the first time. ‘There are hooks in the downstairs loo. It’s just off the utility room.’
‘The dog . . . ?’ said Carly.
‘Buster? He’s harmless.’ She turned back to face the fire. ‘More likely to lick you to death than take a chunk out of you.’
Jo took off her jacket and removed from the pockets her phone, pocketbook, and warrant card. While she waited for her DC to return, Jo decided to take a seat on the sofa.
‘That’s it, make yourself at home,’ said Helen Wilkins, without turning her head. Her tone was unreadable. She picked up a poker, unhooked the glass door, and stabbed at the fire. Logs crackled and shot out sparks in all directions. After a few seconds she closed the door, replaced the poker, and carried on staring into the stove.
Jo wondered what was going through the woman’s mind. The last time she’d seen her daughter alive? The moment she was told that her daughter was dead? The hopes she’d harboured for her daughter and the future they would never share going up in flames at the crematorium?
Carly sat down beside Jo clutching her tablet, pocketbook, and a biro.
‘I’m going to record this,’ Jo whispered. ‘You take whatever notes you feel appropriate. Key points. Thoughts that occur to you. Questions that arise. Okay?’
‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Carly replied.
Jo cleared her throat. ‘Miss Wilkins?’
The woman flinched as though someone had slapped her across the face or disturbed a vivid dream. She looked up, saw them sitting there and slowly sat back in her chair.
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ she said. ‘Nobody gave a damn at the time, so why now? After all this time.’
When Jo had finished telling her, Helen Wilkins pushed herself out of her seat and walked over to the window. She stood with her back to them looking out at the storm. A streak of lightning zig-zagged in front of her right shoulder. She began to count slowly, out loud. ‘One, two, three, four . . .’ When she reached eleven there was a loud rumble of thunder. ‘Two and a bit miles away,’ she said. ‘I wonder if it’s coming or going.’
Carly Whittle nudged Jo with her elbow. ‘Is she alright, Ma’am?’ she whispered.
Jo shrugged. It was impossible to tell.
Miss Wilkins turned to face them. ‘So,’ she said, ‘it isn’t about Elaine at all, is it? Not really. You want me to help you solve another case.’
‘A case that may concern what happened to her,’ said Jo. ‘To be honest, we don’t yet know. That’s why we need your help.’
Helen Wilkins walked back to her chair, and sat down.
‘This is about James, my first husband, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘The way he reacted to Elaine’s death. The threats he made against the Coroner.’
‘I’m really sorry to be doing this,’ said Jo. ‘I’m sure the last thing you need is for someone to bring it all back.’
‘Bring it all back?’ she replied. Her back stiffened and with it the tone of her voice. ‘Bring it all back? It never went away. It never will.’ She stared at them. ‘Do either of you have children?’
They both shook their heads.
‘Well, when you do,’ she continued, ‘and God forbid you lose one, then you’ll understand.’
Jo wanted to tell her that she’d sat with more bereaved parents than she cared to remember, but she knew that empathy simply wouldn’t cut it. Experience told her to let silence do the heavy lifting. After a long minute Helen Wilkins began to talk again.
‘It takes everyone in different ways, you know?’ she said. ‘Grief. At first, I retreated into myself. I was in denial, I suppose. But I had another child to think about and a husband who was incapable of looking after himself. We wives don’t have the luxury of being able to wallow in self-pity or embark on grand campaigns for justice. I don’t blame him though, James. All that hell and fury, it was just a way of shifting the blame. Of not having to face his own feelings of guilt. The overwhelming sense that he had failed in his duty to protect our daughter.’
She searched their faces, to see if they had any sense of what she was talking about. Jo nodded to show that she did. Beside her, Carly picked up the cue and followed suit.
‘There was nothing I or anyone else could do to convince him otherwise,’ she continued. ‘He was obsessed with finding someone to blame. In the end all that self-loathing, anger, and frustration proved impossible to live with. Not just for me, but for our son too. I told my husband to leave.’
‘How did he react?’ asked Jo.
‘He went upstairs, packed a couple of bags and left. I think he was relieved.’
‘Why relieved?’
‘Because he was finding it impossible too. Living in the house where our daughter had died. Sleeping next to the bedroom where he had found her in a pool of sick. Living cheek by jowl with two people who didn’t feel the same way that he did.’
‘You separated?’ said Jo.
‘And then divorced.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘When he left, or when the divorce absolute came through?’
‘Both.’
‘He moved out in December 2012, two years to the day that Elaine passed away. The divorce became final the following September.’
‘Where did your husband go when he left?’
‘At first he rented a flat in town. Once the house was sold and he had enough to buy somewhere outright, he moved into a terraced house in Rusholme.’
‘You didn’t keep the house as part of the settlement?’ said Jo. ‘I’d have thought you would have done, with it being the marital home and you having a child to raise?’
‘I couldn’t bear to stay there either,’ she replied. ‘And it wasn’t healthy for Darren, our son.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Too many memories. I gave my husband £40,000 from the sale. It wasn’t part of the divorce settlement, but I felt sorry for him and I had some money of my own from my parents.’
‘Did you stay in touch?’ Jo wondered.
‘Not really.’ She looked up. ‘Not my choice, you understand – his. I think that just seeing us, Darren and me, was too painful a remind
er for him,’ she said. ‘But in any case, I wouldn’t have let Darren see him after the breakdown.’
‘Breakdown?’
‘That’s right. One of his work colleagues rang to tell me. He’d developed severe depression. He was hospitalised for a while and never returned to work.’
‘When was this?’
‘The spring of 2013, I think. He moved away that autumn.’
‘Do you know where he is now?’
‘North Yorkshire, I think. Somewhere in the Wolds. But I haven’t heard from him since then. Neither, to the best of my knowledge, has Darren.’
‘How did all this affect your son?’ said Jo.
‘Darren?’ She seemed genuinely taken aback. ‘How is that relevant?’
‘It must have been very difficult for him?’ said Jo, swerving the question.
Helen Wilkins got up, picked up two small logs from the pile in the hearth, opened the glass door and placed them inside. She gave the fire a few prods with the poker and sat down again.
‘He was seventeen, his sister was fifteen. They squabbled all the time, like all teenagers do. Darren had it in his head that Elaine got all the attention. He teased her mercilessly about her clothes, her hairstyles, the fact that she’d declared herself vegan. He decided early on that she was spoilt because she was the youngest and because she was a girl.’ She looked up and made eye contact with Jo. ‘It wasn’t true, of course, but that didn’t stop him thinking it. Elaine, on the other hand, resented the extra freedom he was given because he was older. But for all that, they loved each other. So yes, it was difficult for him.’
‘I don’t suppose the fact that your husband was so angry helped?’ said Jo.
‘No, it didn’t, which is one of the reasons I told James to leave. Darren had become even more moody than before. And introverted – he’d take to his room for hours. Headphones on, crouched over his laptop. I was really worried when he went away to university in London. I needn’t have worried, because the first time he came home it was obvious that his mood had shifted. It was a pleasure to have the real Darren back.’
‘What did Darren read at university?’
‘English Literature.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He rents a nice little terraced house in Walkden, just a couple of miles away. He’s a freelance copywriter. He also does copy-editing and proofreading for publishing houses.’ She smiled. ‘He’s doing well for himself.’
Jo couldn’t think of anything else to ask. ‘Well, I think that’s everything,’ she said. She turned to Carly Whittle. ‘Unless . . . ?’
The detective constable leaned forward. ‘Did either your husband or your son have any interest in air rifles?’ she said.
Helen Wilkins frowned. ‘Air rifles?’
‘Or guns of any kind?’
‘Certainly not. Nor would I have encouraged that. James was an avid Rugby League supporter – the Salford Red Devils. And he loved his bowls and snooker. Darren had his Scouts and his books.’ She shook her head. ‘There were never any guns in this house.’
Chapter 52
‘Looks like someone’s at home.’
Jo followed Carly’s gaze. Although the rain had ceased and the storm clouds had begun to lift, it was still heavily overcast and gloomy. The two-storey red-brick terrace was in darkness, apart from a light shining from a Velux window in the roof space.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Carly as they walked up the flagged path to the front door, ‘the inquest must have been about the time Ronnie O’Neill was sent to prison.’
‘And?’
‘Well, it’s a bit of coincidence, don’t you think?’
Jo rang the bell. ‘I’m not sure I follow? No link has been established between Heather Rand and O’Neill, or any of the other victims.’
‘Maybe not yet, Ma’am. But there is a common factor. Drugs.’
Through the glass panel in the door Jo could see a shadow approaching. ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘Remind me later.’
The door opened. A young man in his twenties stood there with a bemused expression on his face. He had unfashionable shoulder-length hair, two days’ growth of stubble above a chunky white turtleneck, faded jeans ripped at the knees, and Jesus sandals.
‘Darren Clements?’ said Jo, holding her ID up in front of her.
‘Oh God!’ His hand flew to his face. ‘It’s not Mum, is it?’
‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ said Jo. ‘We’ve just come from your mum’s, Darren, and she’s fine. We need to ask you a few questions, that’s all.’
Relief flooded his face, but he was still blocking the doorway.
‘Could we come inside, please?’ she prompted.
‘Oh, yes, right. Of course,’ he said. ‘Come in.’
There were stairs in front of them and a door to the right. He led them through into an open-plan room that served as a lounge and dining room. Beyond that she could see a small minimally furnished kitchen and UPVC doors leading to a yard at the rear. The dining table was covered with books. Ceiling-height shelves on either side of the fireplace were stacked with paperbacks. There was no sign of a television, but an Amazon Echo shared a wall-mounted shelf with a pile of vinyl records and a turntable.
Darren pointed to the two black leather chairs. ‘Would you like to sit down?’
He waited until they were seated, then dragged a massive grey beanbag across the wooden floor and slumped into it.
‘What’s this about?’ he said.
‘Does the name Heather Rand mean anything to you?’ said Jo.
He pursed his lips, then shook his head. ‘No. Sorry.’
‘Did you attend the inquest into your sister’s death?’
He seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Elaine? No, I didn’t. Why?’
‘Are you sure you don’t remember that name?’ Jo pressed.
‘I told you, no. Why? Who is she?’
Jo watched him closely.
‘The coroner at the inquest into Elaine’s death.’
His brow furrowed. He ran his hand over the stubble on his chin. Then he leaned forward and his eyebrows shot up.
‘Oh God!’ he said. ‘My father hasn’t gone and done something stupid, has he?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘You know.’ He looked from one to the other of them. ‘He was obsessed with her. Made all those threats about her?’
‘How do you know about those?’
‘Because we had the police round, didn’t we? More than once. And he and Mum were always rowing about it.’ He paused and slumped back. ‘That’s why she threw him out.’
‘So how come you didn’t recognise her name?’
‘Because I only knew her as this woman he was angry with. I knew she was the coroner, but I don’t recall the name.’
‘Have you seen your father recently?’
He shook his head. ‘Not since he left. He had a breakdown, you know.’
‘Yes,’ said Jo. ‘Your mother mentioned it.’
He waited for her to say something else. When she didn’t, he decided to speak. ‘Can you please tell me what this is all about? To be honest, it’s spooking me out.’
‘Someone has attacked Miss Rand,’ she told him.
‘That’s awful,’ he said. ‘How was she attacked?’
Jo decided there was no point in keeping it from him, because her next question was going to give it away. ‘She was shot.’
He sat up again. ‘God, that’s terrible. And you think my father has something to do with it?’
‘We’re just trying to eliminate everyone who may have had a grudge against her,’ said Jo.
‘Shooting someone,’ he said. ‘That’s some grudge. How is she?’
Jo paused, to make absolutely sure that she had eye contact. She was looking for the slightest pupillary response. Beside her, Carly had also stopped writing and was also watching him.
‘She’ll live,’ she said.
His face was expressionless. There may ha
ve been the slightest constriction of his pupils but, if so, it was followed by a gradual dilation. And then he nodded his head gravely. ‘That’s good,’ he said.
‘Do you own a gun, Darren?’ Jo asked.
He looked surprised and then affronted. ‘Me? You can’t seriously think it was me?’
‘Do you? Own a gun?’
‘No, I don’t. And I never have.’
‘Not even an air rifle?’
‘No. Look, I thought this was about my father?’
‘Like I said, Darren, we have to eliminate everyone, however unlikely.’
He seemed to relax a little.
‘Your sister’s death must have come as quite a shock?’ she said.
He sat back. ‘It did. It doesn’t mean I wanted to kill someone.’
‘Even the mildest person might feel like wanting to do that at the time,’ she said. ‘Needing someone to blame. Having somewhere to focus all the anger. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘I had someone to blame,’ he replied softly. ‘Only she was already dead.’
Jo sensed that exploring his feelings for his sister would take them down a cul-de-sac.
‘Do you own a car?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I passed my test at uni, but it’s a luxury I can do without. It’s not as though I need one for work.’
‘How do you get around then?’
‘Public transport. There’s a guided busway into the city. And I have a pushbike if I need to go to the shops.’
‘What is it you do exactly?’
‘I’m a copywriter.’ He recognised the blank expression on her face. He was used to having to explain. ‘I write advertising and marketing copy – anything and everything. For adverts in magazines, newspapers, brochures, billboards, and websites too. I also help with scripts for radio and TV commercials. About thirty per cent of my work is copy-editing and proofreading for publishing houses.’
‘Would you mind if we had a look around?’ she asked. ‘Then we can leave you to get on.’
The threat was implied. Although she knew she’d be pushed to get a search warrant given how little they had. But he didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed.
