Текст книги "The Blissfully Dead"

Автор книги: Louise Voss

Соавторы: Mark Edwards
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

Chapter 25

Day 8 – Patrick

Patrick hauled himself out of his bronze Prius and made his way through the station car park, passing Winkler’s white Audi and noticing the gleam of the paintwork, the alloy hubcaps, the licence plate bragging that this car was brand new. Winkler had been banging on about his new motor for weeks, and Patrick couldn’t help feeling a clench of envy, especially when he peered through the window and saw how immaculate it was. No crumbled Wotsits on the carpets; no half-chewed Haribo stuck to the seats; no discarded toys in the footwell. Bonnie had systematically wrecked the interior of Patrick’s car and he needed to take it to one of those valet places, where silent Eastern European men would render it spick and span – until Bonnie got in it again. Still, it was all worth it, wasn’t it? He’d rather have crisp crumbs mashed into his upholstery than live Winkler’s shallow existence. Rather get a big goodnight hug from his daughter before settling in front of the TV for an evening of – albeit currently awkward – conversation with Gill, than live Winkler’s life: pumping iron at the gym, then heading to bed with his latest desperate woman.

He sighed. He hadn’t been to the gym in months, and when he tried to do press-ups at home Bonnie would invariably leap screeching onto his back. And going to bed with desperate women . . . well, there was ‘exciting’ desperate and there was the other kind. By the time Patrick reached the building, his mood had dropped from grumpy to foul.

Winkler was hanging about in the corridor, chatting up the custody sergeant, the two of them falling silent when Patrick walked past scowling, a fresh burst of laughter following him down the hall. He was in a good mind to go back there, ask them what was so fucking funny. But he was distracted by the beep of his phone. Carmella? He was eager for news from Ireland. But no, it was Gill, asking what he wanted for dinner, even though he’d only left her company an hour ago. He very much doubted he’d be home before midnight – she knew that – and he felt irritated, then felt bad for being irritated. He knew she was nervous today because she had a meeting with her chambers about going back to her previous job in a month or so. He badly wanted Gill to resume her work as a barrister, even though it would cause more nightmares with childcare, because he believed that if she returned to work, she would begin to regain her old self, and the nervy, anxious woman he lived with would become his strong and capable wife again. He knew it wouldn’t be that simple, but surely it would be a start? Something had to give. Because at the moment he was happier at work, dealing with Winkler and dead teenagers, than he was at home.

He replied to Gill as he sat at his desk, saying he’d grab a takeaway later, not to worry, and wishing her good luck with the meeting. He ended the text with a single kiss (there were four kisses on Gill’s message) and then sent a text to Carmella, asking her how it was going. He hated waiting around like this.

He also felt antsy because at the moment they only had this one line of inquiry, if you didn’t count Winkler’s strand of the operation – which he didn’t. He knew from bitter experience how dangerous it was to focus on one suspect, to have tunnel vision in a case. In 90 per cent of investigations, the obvious solution was the right one. The prime suspect did it, the odds worked out. Human behaviour was depressingly but reassuringly predictable. But sometimes, as in the Child Catcher case, it was like trying to fathom a magic trick: misdirection, sleight of hand. Smoke and mirrors. Right now, all the evidence seemed to be pointing towards one person, but Patrick lived in fear of Plan A going tits up when you had no Plan B in place.

He opened his Moleskine notepad, plugged his headphones into his computer and opened Spotify. This morning, even The Cure couldn’t lighten his mood. He needed something that would block out the chatter and ambient noise around him while not distracting him too much. Aural wallpaper. He clicked on an Elbow playlist and got to work.

At the top of the first page, he wrote ‘ROSE’, adding ‘JESSICA’ in the corresponding spot on the facing page. In a space in the middle he listed the similarities between the two murders.

OnTarget fans.

Users of social media/fan forums.

Caucasian, teenage (14/15 yo), lower m/c, state schools, average height/weight.

M.O. of perp: strangulation, no sexual penetration, torture – cuts, sprayed with perfume, clothes and possessions removed.

On Jessica’s side, he wrote some extra details: her injuries were worse, displaying an escalation in violence. The cuts were deeper and, according to Daniel Hamlet, had been inflicted with more force. Jess had bruises on her face; some of her hair had been yanked out. Why was this? Had she fought, made him angry? Was it the kind of escalation sometimes seen in serial murders, where the killer got more extreme as he went along, more confident and frenzied, needing the greater violence to feel satisfied? Or had he hated Jessica more than he hated Rose?

Patrick pondered this last question. How had the killer chosen these two victims? Were the girls interchangeable or had they been targeted specifically?

He wrote this down too, with a thick question mark that made him itch with frustration. From what Wendy and Martin had found out so far, there was no sign of them interacting online except in the most superficial way. They had both tweeted and written about the same subjects, namely how much they loved Shawn, how amazing the last OnT video was, how much they despised a Daily Mail journalist who had interviewed the band and described them as ‘vacuous puppies without the guts or gumption to say a single interesting thing’. The only thing that set them apart from a hundred thousand other OnT fans was the level of their online activity. They were – what did Wendy call them? – super users.

What were the other differences and similarities? Rose was found in a hotel; Jessica in a photo studio. They knew the studio had once been used by OnTarget, but there appeared to be no connection between the Travel Inn and the band. They had never stayed there, not in this or any other branch. No-one at the hotel had any connection to the band. So why had the killer chosen the photo studio, with its direct connection, and the hotel, which had none? The use of the perfume suggested deliberate symbolism. It seemed he wanted it to be known that their fandom had made them targets. Or was it, as Carmella had pointed out, just that both girls had been carrying the fragrance with them? Their mothers had confirmed that they both owned a bottle of Friendship. Maybe that was all it was.

Maybe, Patrick thought with a start, the fact that they were both OnTarget fans was a red herring. Could that be possible? After all, a large percentage of teenage girls in this country liked OnT.

He spotted Wendy at the other end of the office and called her over.

‘All right?’ she said. She seemed a little wary, like an office worker who’s been summoned by their boss, but, more than that, she looked tired. Knowing her exhaustion was caused by the long hours she’d been putting in, Patrick felt more pleasure than sympathy, sure that Wendy was going to make an excellent officer when she got some more experience under her belt. With her youthful looks and Black Country accent, Wendy struggled to be taken seriously. Patrick, with his tattoos, could empathise with that.

‘Wendy,’ he said. ‘I need to know if there’s any connection between the Travel Inn and OnTarget.’ He summarised what they knew so far. ‘Any ideas?’

She pondered a moment and then asked, ‘What room was Rose found in?’

‘Three-six-five.’

She snapped her fingers in triumph. ‘Thought it might be.’

‘Eh?’

‘“Room 365” is the title of an OnTarget song. It’s on the first album. It’s about wanting to lock yourself away with a girl 365 days of the year.’ She sang a snatch of the song, her voice sweet and tuneful. ‘And my baby comes alive/In room three-sixty-five, three-sixty-five.’

Patrick stared at her. ‘Why didn’t anyone else know that?’

Wendy gave him a little shrug. ‘You obviously didn’t ask the right person.’

He grinned at her and she appeared delighted to have been so helpful.

‘How are you getting on?’ With the new focus on Shawn Barrett, Patrick had lost track of what Wendy was up to. ‘I assume you haven’t found any direct connections between Rose and Jessica online yet? Nothing on the forums? Or on their computers?’

‘Nothing direct.’ Her eyelashes fluttered nervously. ‘But I am making good progress. I’m getting to know the girls who use the OnT forum, the other super users, gaining their trust. I’m pretty much ready to start a conversation about Rose and Jess now. I just need a couple more days.’

Patrick tapped his fingers on the desk. Was this a waste of time? Maybe it would be better to pull her off this task. Winkler kept going on about how he needed someone to help him with, as he put it, the donkey work. He would hate to bestow that fate upon her, but . . .

‘Please, Patrick.’

He looked up sharply.

‘Sorry, I meant, sir.’

‘It’s OK. You can call me Patrick when it’s just the two of us around. Or “boss”, if you prefer.’

She turned pink and met his eye and he realised his words had come out wrong.

Embarrassed, he said, ‘OK, it’s fine. If you’re sure you’re getting close. But if it seems like these young women don’t know anything useful, I want you working on something else.’

‘Of course. Thanks, er, Patrick.’

‘Any decision I make is for the sake of the case, so you don’t need to thank me.’

She deepened from pink to red, as bad as Gareth Batey, who was renowned for his blushes. Patrick sighed, wishing he could shake this prickly, irritated mood.

‘Listen, you look shattered. When did you last go home?’

‘Um. I can’t remember. Yesterday?’

‘Right. Well, take a few hours, go home, have a nap. I think you’ve earned a break.’

‘But I want to stay here and—’

‘Wendy, I’m ordering you to go home. OK?’

She opened her mouth to argue, but shut it again. ‘Thanks, boss.’

After she’d gone, he returned to his notebook, adding in what Wendy had told him about the ‘Room 365’ song, which seemed to eradicate any last doubt that OnTarget was the link here. He checked his mobile again. Still nothing from Carmella, just two more texts from Gill, telling him she had decided not to go to the meeting with her old firm because she had a headache, and that she’d called Patrick’s mum and asked her if she could drop off Bonnie for a couple of hours. For fuck’s sake! He thumped the mobile down on the desk, just as Gareth Batey walked into the office.

‘Boss,’ said Gareth, hovering sheepishly at the edge of the room.

Patrick looked up at him, frustration and irritation scratching at his skin. ‘Yes?’

‘I’ve been round all the fast-food places near the Travel Inn, like you asked. There are dozens of them and they all have tons of staff, most of whom work shifts, half of them not officially on the books, so trying to talk to anyone has been a total—’

‘Just cut to the chase. Does anyone remember seeing Rose that night?’

‘Well, no, but one guy thought he remembered seeing a girl wearing an OnTarget hoodie . . .’

‘Rose wasn’t wearing a hoodie.’

‘I know, but—’

‘So why are you telling me this utterly useless piece of information? And what’s going on with this key card? Has Peter Bell got back to you yet?’

‘I haven’t had a chance to chase him, boss, because I’ve been trudging round burger bars in Teddington.’

Patrick glared at him. His impatience with the case; waiting for Carmella to call; everything that was going on with Gill . . . It was rare for Patrick to lose his temper, but right now he felt like a bunch of toddlers were tugging on his nerve endings, shrieking, and it took every ounce of self-control not to point a finger at Gareth and yell, ‘Haven’t had a chance? I thought you took this job seriously? Get the fuck out of my sight and don’t come back until Peter fucking Bell has told you everything he knows about hackers and fucking hotel key cards and . . .’

But he still couldn’t stop himself shouting something almost as unprofessional in Gareth’s face. ‘You’ll be working in a burger bar in Teddington yourself if you don’t get some sodding results soon! Go and see Peter Bell, now!’

He stopped dead. Winkler was standing at the far end of the room, a sickening grin on his face. Gareth, who had gone pale, turned to follow Patrick’s gaze. Winkler walked off, waving, and Gareth hung his head.

‘Actually, DI Winkler needs help. Why don’t you go and talk to him? Find out what he needs?’

‘Yes, boss.’

Gareth hurried away, just as Patrick’s mobile started to vibrate. Carmella, at last. As he answered, he looked up and saw Winkler talking to Gareth through the window, resting a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Probably best, he thought, if Gareth did Winkler’s donkey work for a day or two. Then Patrick would apologise to him for losing his temper.

He swivelled his chair away from them. He’d listen to Carmella’s report, and then he was going to go home and take his daughter to the park, try to shift this funk.

Chapter 26

Day 8 – Patrick

Bonnie was ecstatic when she saw Patrick walk into his parents’ front room, where she had been playing with his old Fuzzy Felt farm set. She flung aside the board and threw herself into his arms.

‘Daddy! My daddy!’ she cried, reminding him of the ending of the movie The Railway Children, as she grasped him tightly around his neck, still clutching a limp felt cow in her fist.

His mother, Mairead, looked pleased to see him too. ‘Pat! We weren’t expecting you for hours yet!’

He smiled at her. ‘It’s all getting a bit fraught at work. Needed a couple of hours away from it. Who fancies a trip to the swings?’

‘Me!’ shrieked Bonnie, struggling to get down. ‘Gonna wear my wellies!’

‘Coming, Mum? Or do you fancy putting your feet up for a bit?’

Mairead pursed her lips. ‘I’ll come, I think. I could do with some fresh pear.’

‘Fresh pear?’

‘Air, Patrick, I said. Air. And you look like you could yourself too; you’re as white as a rice pudding.’

She had definitely said ‘pear’. This wasn’t the first time he’d noticed her randomly misusing words, but he had always put it down to her being tired. Now that Gill was going back to work and Mairead was resuming her duties as Bonnie’s post-nursery nanny, he hoped it wouldn’t all be too much for her. He felt the familiar stab of guilt at the burden he was placing on his parents – or, at least, his mum, he thought, regarding his dad, Jim, fast asleep with his mouth wide open on the sofa.

‘Let’s go, then,’ he said, helping Bonnie push her feet into her spotty wellies. ‘If I sit down, I won’t get up again.’

It was such a cold day that the playground in Bushy Park was almost empty. Bonnie’s cheeks turned bright red and her nose was running within moments of her leaping into the sandpit with both feet, where she raced around in circles cackling with excitement.

Patrick and Mairead sat together on a nearby bench.

‘She makes me feel knackered just looking at her,’ Patrick observed.

‘She’s a dote,’ Mairead said fondly. ‘So, how’s work going?’

Patrick sighed and took out his e-cigarette. ‘Tough. I feel like Bonnie’s not the only one going round in circles. It’s so frustrating when we get stuck like this, and terrifying to think that if we don’t figure it out, another girl could die.’

‘Ah, it’s a responsible job all right,’ his mother agreed, refusing to engage with the grimness of what he’d said. ‘And how’s the lovely Carmella?’ She’d always had a soft spot for Carmella. They’d met once, and Mairead had been delighted to discover that she knew of Carmella’s auntie from County Meath – which, in Mairead’s book, made them friends for life.

‘She’s fine. She went over to Dublin today following a lead. She’ll be back later.’

‘Dublin?’ His mother looked puzzled. ‘That’s an awful long flight!’

Patrick turned to look at her. ‘What are you on about, Mum?’

‘You can’t be sending her over there for just a day, when it takes nine hours to get there on a plane!’

‘Nine hours? Mum, are you winding me up? You know it only takes an hour to fly to Dublin!’ Patrick experienced a new rush of all the irritation he’d felt earlier with Gareth Batey.

‘Oh,’ she said in a small voice. ‘Does it now? I must be mistaken.’

‘You are,’ said Pat briskly, standing up to hide his worried expression. This was not normal. Oh God, he thought, please don’t let her be losing her marbles. He took a deep drag of his e-cig and was about to join Bonnie in the sandpit when a familiar voice called his name. Looking up, he thought for a second he was hallucinating. Of all people, Suzanne was jogging down the path alongside the playground towards him. He laughed at the incongruity of it, and she did too, stopping on the other side of the low fence.

‘Fancy seeing you here!’ she said, panting loudly. He couldn’t help noticing the way the skintight Lycra top and leggings hugged her figure. ‘You wouldn’t think we were in the middle of a case, would you?’

He looked sharply at her to see if this was a criticism, but she was still smiling at him.

‘Needed to clear my head.’

‘Yeah, me too,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, Pat, I know how many hours you’ve put in over the last week. Of course I don’t begrudge you a couple off. Is that your Bonnie?’

Bonnie was now gawping up at an older boy, of five or six, who was studiously ignoring her as he made a sandcastle.

‘It is,’ he said proudly.

Suzanne gazed at her, her shoulders still heaving. ‘She’s absolutely beautiful.’

‘And this is my mother, Mairead.’ He turned to her. ‘Mum, this is my boss, Suzanne. DCI Laughland.’

‘You look awful glamorous for a detective,’ Mairead said suspiciously.

‘Well, thank you, Mrs Lennon,’ she replied, wiping her forehead. ‘Not that I feel it at the moment, after running three miles, I must be bright red . . . Pat, since we both find ourselves here, could we have a quick word?’

He vaulted over the fence to where Suzanne stood on the gravel path. ‘Mum, keep an eye on Bonnie, would you?’ he called back.

It was odd, being so near Suzanne when she was unkempt and sweaty, but Patrick couldn’t help feeling turned on. It was the way her breasts were heaving, the flush at her collarbone, the scent of fresh sweat coming off her. He had a mental flash of her in a post-coital tangle of sheets, a cat-that-got-the-cream smile on her face, arms reaching out to him.

Their eyes met.

‘So,’ she said, briskly zipping up her jacket to cover her chest.

Why did she make him feel like a randy teenager? He suddenly smiled at her, unable to help himself, and she returned the smile. Neither of them spoke for a moment, but their chemistry puffed almost visibly around them in the chill February air, like Suzanne’s hot breath.

‘So,’ he repeated softly, equally unable to stop himself reaching out and gently touching her hand.

The spell was broken by a screeching voice. ‘Daddeee! Look at meeeee!’

He and Suzanne both turned to see Bonnie lying on her back in the sandpit making sand angels, while Mairead tutted and tried to peel her onto her feet.

‘Any news from Carmella in Dublin?’ Suzanne asked abruptly, taking a swig from her water bottle.

‘Not yet. She’s about to visit the girl at home, says she’ll call when she’s done.’

‘Hmm. Anything else?’

Patrick frowned. ‘Not a lot. Batey’s dicking around getting nowhere, says he’s been to all the burger bars but nobody saw Rose. I got pissed off with him, actually – he should’ve been chasing up Peter Bell and the hotel key card. Oh, one bit of good news . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Wendy’s made an OnTarget connection to where Rose was found – “Room 365” is apparently the name of one of their songs. I’d never have figured that one out in a million years. Bright girl, that one.’

‘Hmm, well, I wouldn’t say that an encyclopedic knowledge of OnTarget’s back catalogue would normally be an asset in a PC’s skillset, but good on her.’

Patrick laughed. ‘I meant that she’s a bright girl, in general. I like her.’

‘She likes you too,’ Suzanne said, a trifle darkly, Patrick thought, puzzled. ‘Anyway, I’d better be heading off; I’m getting cold. Are you back in this afternoon?’

He nodded. ‘See you later, boss.’

‘See you, Pat. Good to bump into you. Say goodbye to your mum and Bonnie.’

She smiled again and set off, her blonde ponytail swinging on her back and her long legs stretching gracefully as she ran. Patrick couldn’t help but stare after her, watching the way her buttocks moved in the tight black Lycra. She had an amazing figure – she could pass for a teenager from behind, he thought.

‘Patrick!’ his mother called sharply.

‘Yes?’ He climbed slowly back over the fence into the playground and jumped into the sandpit with both feet, to make Bonnie laugh. She did laugh, but Mairead was fixing him with one of her Paddington stares.

‘I’m not as green as I’m cabbage-looking, you know,’ she said, sotto voce so that Bonnie couldn’t hear. ‘Would you care to tell me exactly what’s going on with you and that one, now?’

It wasn’t difficult for Patrick to arrange his features into an expression of horror and outrage – although what he was really horrified about was how easily his mother appeared to have read the situation.

‘Nothing, Mum,’ he said meekly. ‘I swear. We’re just work colleagues.’

‘And the rest, Patrick Martin Lennon. You watch yourself with that one. You’ve enough on your plate.’

‘I know I have,’ he said, but he couldn’t prevent a pang of misery stabbing him in the chest. So was that it, then? Having ‘enough on his plate’ meant that he was trapped in an unhappy marriage with Gill forever, with no hope of ever getting what he wanted out of a relationship?

The trouble was, he wasn’t entirely sure what it even was that he wanted anymore, or with whom.

He and his mother both watched Suzanne jog away in between the trees, until she shrank to a blonde dot and vanished.

It was the first time since Gill’s release that he had articulated, even to himself, that his marriage was unhappy.

As soon as Patrick got back to the station, the woman on reception said, ‘There’s a chap here to see you.’ She gestured towards the waiting area, where a bearded man in a corduroy jacket sat thumbing a smartphone. Graham Burns, the social media manager from Global Sounds. His trousers, Patrick noticed, were a few inches too short, displaying a pair of bright yellow socks.

Patrick strolled over. ‘Mr Burns.’

Burns looked up, startled. He jumped to his feet. ‘Detective. I think I’ve found something . . . interesting.’

Patrick led Burns to an interview room and asked him if he wanted a coffee.

‘Flat white, please.’

Patrick gave him a look.

‘Um . . . actually, don’t worry. I’m good. Yeah.’ He was carrying a mustard yellow satchel, which he rummaged inside, pulling out a sheaf of papers. ‘You remember you asked me if I could access the private messages Rose and Jess exchanged?’

Patrick nodded, trying not to look too eager.

‘Well . . . I could be fired for doing this, but . . . you’re not going to tell anyone, are you?’

Patrick couldn’t make that promise in case this evidence was ever needed in court, so said, ‘What did you find?’

Graham handed over the sheets of A4 paper and spoke as Patrick cast his eye over them. ‘These were sent last year, on the fifteenth of October.’

The first message was from Jess to Rose.

 

Hey, I saw you posting about Shawn, saying you didn’t believe he’d ever go with a groupie . . . Well, a friend of mine got picked out of the crowd at Wembley and met Shawn at a hotel!!!

As Patrick read, Burns pulled a cotton handkerchief out of his inside pocket, blowing his nose loudly.

Rose wrote back: OMG, no WAY!!! What happened? Did she have sex with him?! What was it like?

Jess replied: Get this: apparently, Shawn wanted to tie her up and smack her bum with a riding crop!!!

Rose replied with a row of smiley faces in various states of shock and alarm. Did she let him?!?!

Yeah. She said she couldn’t sit down for a week. But this is obvs TOP SECRET, OK?

Patrick looked up. ‘Is that it? Did they exchange any more messages?’

‘No, not that I could find. It’s possible there were more, but if they deleted them, they wouldn’t be stored anywhere. It’s pretty worrying stuff, isn’t it?’

‘I assume you know about Shawn and the young woman in Dublin.’

‘Yeah, I was aware of that . . . Part of my remit is to stop rumours spreading about the band on social media, to manage their reputation. So if any of this stuff ever got out . . .’

Patrick stood up and led Burns out past the reception area, thanking him and asking him not to talk to anyone about what he’d found.

‘Don’t worry, Detective. I won’t tell a soul.’

Patrick watched him go, bright yellow socks and all. Now he was keener than ever to talk to Shawn Barrett.