Текст книги "The Blissfully Dead"

Автор книги: Louise Voss

Соавторы: Mark Edwards
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

‘Boss? It’s Wendy . . . Listen, I . . .’

‘Oh, Wendy. Is it life or death?’

Wendy hesitated. She heard a woman’s voice calling Patrick impatiently.

‘I’m at the Rotunda in Kingston. I think I’ve made contact with—’

Again, she heard a woman calling Patrick at the other end of the phone line, saying something about a door. Wendy felt a flash of embarrassment. She shouldn’t be calling him, spoiling his birthday dinner.

‘I’m really sorry, Wendy. Can I call you back in thirty minutes?’

‘Yes, of course. Sorry to disturb you, boss.’

‘No problem. I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Happy birth—’

But he had hung up. While she was talking to him, a teenage boy had come out of the car park, fiddling with the waist of his low-hanging trousers, a cat-that-got-the-cream look on his face. He smirked at Wendy as he walked past her and she turned to see him swagger towards the road.

Fuck this, she thought. The car park was reasonably well lit and Wendy knew how to handle herself. She wanted to talk to Mockingjay, find out if the girl was a complete time-waster, and head home to that bubble bath and bottle of wine. She strode towards the car park and squeezed around the barrier.

‘Hello?’ she called.

No response.

She walked farther into the car park. Where the hell was the stupid girl? She took her phone out of her pocket again and started to tap out a message to Mockingjay.

A noise came from beside the far wall, where it was almost pitch dark. Broken glass crunching under her feet indicated that there had once been lights above her. Wendy strained to see, imagined her mum saying that if she’d eaten her carrots, she’d be able to see in the dark. She took another step forwards.

‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Mockingjay? What are you playing at?’

A shape appeared from behind a car, moving fast and, at the same time Wendy registered that this was no teenage girl, this wasn’t the person she’d been chasing, she felt a sharp, hot pain close to her heart. Then another.

And then she was falling, her palms clutching her chest, her dying mind refusing to process the facts, that the warm liquid on her hands was her own blood, that the person who had stabbed her stopped for a moment to look down at her. They had crouched and taken the phone from her hands before running away.

As her life slipped from her she was vaguely aware of another figure – brown skin, wide eyes, a teenage girl; Mockingjay? – crouching beside her, saying ‘OhJesusohJesusohJesus’ while Wendy tried, and failed, to ask for help. Her life didn’t flash before her eyes. All she felt was disbelief, and then nothing.

PART TWO

Chapter 33

Day 10 – Carmella

Carmella and Jenny stood hand in hand outside the Lennons’ front door. In their spare hands Jenny held a bunch of white roses and purple sweetpeas and Carmella a bottle of Picpoul de Pinet, the sweat from her palm making the cold bottle’s condensation even more slippery.

‘I’m nervous. Why am I nervous? Are we late?’ Carmella said in a low voice, tucking the bottle tightly under her armpit so she could fish her phone out of her pocket and check the time – 8.25 p.m. They weren’t late.

Whenever she felt tense, the scar at the side of her belly where the bullet had grazed her began to feel stretched and achy, and it was really taut now, even though it was a year on. To take her mind off it, she surveyed the small, modern house, Patrick’s bronze Prius in the driveway the only feature distinguishing it from the other identical houses in the cul-de-sac.

‘Why are you nervous?’ Jenny grinned at her. ‘I’m not nervous, and I’ve never met any of these people before.’

‘I think I’m just worried that Pat will freak, having us all over for dinner when he didn’t know about it. It’s just so not—’

‘Hey,’ Jenny interrupted, as a shadow loomed towards the other side of the frosted glass panel front door. She leaned across and hastily kissed Carmella on the lips. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, wife,’ she whispered.

‘Happy’ – Carmella, smiling, was about to say the same – even though they had already exchanged cards and handmade gifts when they got in from work – but when Patrick opened the door, slipping his mobile into his pocket as he did so, she changed it – ‘birthday, boss!’ She thrust the bottle towards him. ‘Sorry it’s not wrapped. Um, hello? Are you OK?’

He snapped out of the trance he was in. ‘Sorry. Thank you, Carmella. I think I’d have been able to figure out what it was anyway,’ he said, taking it from her. He held out his hand to Jenny. ‘You must be Jenny. Lovely to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you.’

‘Likewise,’ said Jenny, shaking hands with him and handing over the flowers with a smile. Carmella had pre-warned her not to go in for the kiss on the cheek. Patrick wasn’t much of a kissy person, she said – although obviously Carmella didn’t see that side of him at work anyway. He just didn’t strike her as very tactile. He looked very different to how he’d looked at work earlier, in a bright blue shirt that clung to his body, tucked into the sort of jeans that cost about a hundred and eighty quid. Carmella wondered if Pat had bought them, or whether Gill had.

‘So, when did you find out we were all turning up?’ she asked as they followed Patrick into a small hallway, squeezing past a pushchair and a small pink tricycle. Voices from the back of the house indicated that the other guests had already arrived.

‘About half an hour ago.’ Pat grinned ruefully. ‘Gill told me she was cooking the lamb to make some shepherd’s pies and that we were going out for a curry. I was getting narky with her for insisting I had a shave and put on a smarter shirt. For a curry? I should’ve known something was up. Let alone that she’d bought a great big leg of lamb just to mince up for shepherd’s pies . . . you wouldn’t guess that I’m a detective, would you?’

‘I won’t tell Winkler,’ Carmella said.

‘You’d better bloody not!’ He nudged her affectionately. ‘Come and meet Gill and everyone.’

This, if Carmella thought about it, was the bit that was making her nervous. Although normally fairly unshockable, she’d been very taken aback to hear Patrick’s wife’s message on the voicemail of her mobile a week ago, inviting her and Jenny round for Pat’s birthday. Even though she had worked with Pat for over three years, she had never met his wife, and Carmella and Jenny had indulged in a fair bit of curious pillow talk about what she was like.

They both felt deeply sorry for her, of course, and for Pat – what a nightmare, to suffer so badly from post-natal psychosis that you almost kill your baby, and then end up in a secure hospital for over a year and a half!

When Carmella had confessed her dread about this event to Jenny later as they lay in bed, Jenny had laughed and kissed her and said, ‘Speak for yourself – I can’t wait! Your boss, his wacko wife, his boss – that he’s clearly got the hots for – her husband, who probably has no idea . . . What could possibly go wrong?’ She had then cackled annoyingly, until Carmella whacked her with a pillow to make her stop.

Now, Patrick took their coats and showed them through to a surprisingly spacious kitchen-diner in which Suzanne Laughland sat on a sofa with a man who Carmella recognised, from the photo on the DCI’s desk, as Suzanne’s husband, Simon. Another woman – Gill, obviously – stood near the counter with a sleepy toddler in her arms, swaying gently from foot to foot.

Bonnie had her thumb in her mouth and her head on her mother’s shoulder. She wore an all-in-one flannelette jumpsuit thing with feet, and for a moment Carmella suddenly felt like her ovaries would explode. She and Jenny had talked about having kids, but neither of them thought the time was right; not yet. She was so busy at work, and Jenny wanted to better establish herself in her new role as deputy head in a local comp, before thinking about motherhood.

‘Ah, this must be the beautiful Bonnie!’ Carmella exclaimed, rushing over, beaming. ‘She’s gorgeous!’ But her beam faded as Gill held up her free arm as though stopping traffic.

‘Please don’t, she’s almost asleep!’

Bonnie’s head jerked up and then slumped back down again, her eyelids drooping and her curls bouncing. Gill spoke again, in a more conciliatory tone. ‘Sorry. I’m about to take her off to bed. You must be Carmella. I’m Gill.’

Carmella shook hands with her. She couldn’t help feeling chastened, as if she’d committed a huge faux pas, which then made her annoyed, because she hadn’t. Gill wasn’t how she had imagined her. She was taller, bigger. Her face was pale, but she had clearly made an effort for the occasion – her long brown hair had been professionally straightened into a sleek curtain and her lips were glossy with coral lipstick. She wasn’t beautiful, certainly, though nor was she plain. She had the sort of smile that lit up her whole face and transformed her.

‘Pat, will you sort out drinks while I get Miss B down for the night? I won’t be long; she’s pretty much out for the count already.’

Simon stood up and stuck out his hand. He was shorter than his wife by about three inches, with a receding hairline and very slightly bulging eyes, but in possession of the sort of charisma that meant it was possible to overlook the physical flaws. ‘Hi! I’m Simon Laughland. Where have you two come from tonight?’

Several minutes of awkward small talk ensued, about where they all lived, and what Patrick had got for his birthday – Gill had bought him tickets for The Cure in March, which impressed Carmella. She was finding it hard to tear her gaze away from Suzanne, who looked completely different to her rather buttoned-up work appearance. She was wearing a short grey silk dress, killer heels and her blonde hair was in long, loose curls down her back.

Patrick handed around a tray of something sparkling. ‘Well, it is my birthday,’ he commented, slightly sheepishly. ‘The missus insisted. I’m sure a little sip or two is allowed . . .’ He looked at Suzanne, who smiled at him.

‘Of course!’ she said, raising her glass. ‘To Pat! Happy birthday.’

Carmella noticed that Suzanne hadn’t waited until ‘the missus’ returned to do the toast.

After that, the evening progressed in the way of most dinner parties where the guests aren’t already close friends: awkward and slightly stilted for the first hour, until alcohol – mostly being consumed by Jenny and Simon, with Gill sipping at a small glass – smoothed off all the scratchy edges. Loud, muffled music through the thin party wall was mingling badly with the mellow Spotify playlist that the Lennons were playing, so Patrick turned it off. For a while nobody talked shop, out of deference to the civilian attendees – Simon, it turned out, was a management consultant – until Jenny brought up the subject.

‘So,’ she said in Suzanne’s direction, as Gill cleared away the remnants of their prawn cocktails. ‘What’s the latest with the big investigation? Thanks, Gill, that was delicious – I love a retro starter, me . . .’

Carmella frowned warningly at her. An expression flashed across Gill’s face that suggested perhaps she thought Jenny was having a dig, although Carmella knew she wasn’t.

‘She’s not kidding. It’s your favourite sort of food, isn’t it, darling?’ Carmella added hastily. ‘Prawn cocktail, Black Forest gateau, gammon and pineapple – you’re a seventies throwback.’

‘Are you any closer to finding who killed those girls?’ Jenny persisted, ignoring Carmella. ‘Jessica McMasters was a pupil at my school, you know. Everyone’s devastated.’

‘We’re working flat out,’ Patrick said – defensively, Carmella thought – from across the kitchen, where he was carving slices from a fragrant garlic-studded leg of lamb. ‘What do you teach, Jenny?’ Carmella could tell he was anxious to change the subject and she felt slightly annoyed with Jenny.

‘Geography – and I’m deputy head too. So, any new leads? Carmella won’t tell me anything!’

‘Oh I know,’ Gill interjected. ‘I’m always badgering Pat to dish the dirt and he never does!’

Carmella made a face at Patrick and he grinned back at her. But Suzanne, who was completely sober, upbraided Gill. ‘Dish the dirt? We’re talking about young girls being murdered here, not the gossip at the local WI!’

There was a shocked silence round the table. Gill, who had been in the middle of handing around plates of meat, froze briefly and the smile fell off her face.

‘It’s just a figure of speech,’ she said, her voice brittle.

‘Of course!’ Patrick jumped to his feet and helped her pass a plate to Simon. Carmella noticed him take his e-cigarette from his shirt pocket and heave a long, desperate drag into his lungs when he turned away to fetch another serving spoon from the cutlery drawer. There was a prickly feeling in the air, like pre-storm static electricity, and her scar started itching again in recognition of it.

Suzanne didn’t apologise, but, in a noticeable effort to be conciliatory, said, ‘It’s a pretty stressful time . . .’ Her husband glared at her.

Jenny pitched in. ‘I heard that Shawn Barrett’s got form . . . And as for that creep Mervyn Hammond!’ Then she glanced at Suzanne. ‘I mean, I didn’t hear any of that from Carmella, obviously, she never tells me anything either, just the kids at school, rumours, you know . . .’

Carmella felt like sinking her head into her hands. She waited for Suzanne to tear Jenny off a strip, but the boss merely smiled and said, ‘It’s OK, Jenny. We all talk to our other halves.’

‘Pat never talks to me,’ said Gill, overly brightly, dishing up a bowl of steaming peas. She somehow managed to make it sound simultaneously like a compliment and an accusation.

As they ate, Simon and Patrick engaging in a desultory discussion about Brighton and Hove Albion’s surprisingly good recent form, someone’s mobile began to buzz, just audible over the sound of scraping cutlery and the bass thumping through the walls.

They all looked around at each other.

‘Whose is that?’ Suzanne asked.

The women delved into handbags and Patrick slipped his hand into his back pocket.

‘It’s mine,’ he said, extracting it and frowning at the screen. ‘Sorry, it’s the station, need to take it.’

He stood up and walked a little way away over to the French windows where he leaned against the glass, his back to them all.

‘Lennon.’

Carmella watched him intently, her glass halfway to her lips. She suddenly had a horrible premonition – as her granny would have said, a ghost walked over your grave – and Patrick’s reaction confirmed it. Although he was facing away from them out towards the dark garden, she saw the reflection of his face in the window and for a second, it crumpled like a child’s as he listened. Then his shoulders slumped and Carmella thought he was going to fall. She leapt to her feet.

‘What is it?’ Her voice came out in a croak of alarm and everyone fell silent.

‘Right. Thanks for letting me know,’ he said faintly into the phone, clearly dazed. His hand dropped down by his side and when he turned back to the room, his face was chalky white.

‘Oh God,’ Suzanne said. ‘Don’t tell me there’s another dead girl?’

Patrick couldn’t speak. Carmella had never seen him looking so shocked. ‘Pat?’

He sank down onto the sofa as though his legs couldn’t hold him. Gill rushed over to sit by him, sliding a protective arm around his waist, but he then immediately stood up again and Gill looked crushed.

‘We have to go,’ he said to Suzanne and Carmella.

‘Patrick, tell me now,’ Suzanne barked, making a move towards him as though she wanted to shake him. Carmella was already on her feet, dreading his next words.

When they came, they were far worse than she could have imagined.

‘There’s another murder, yes . . . But – oh God, I can’t believe it – it’s Wendy Franklin. Our Wendy . . .’

Carmella swallowed into the silence, unable to prevent tears flooding her eyes. She thought of the tenacious, down-to-earth DC with her Black Country accent and slight figure; how hungry she was for success and approval; how desperate to be taken seriously. Wendy hadn’t been Carmella’s favourite person – keen to the point of being irritating – but it seemed inconceivable that she was gone.

‘What happened?’ she croaked, wiping her eyes on her napkin.

‘She’s been stabbed, in a private car park behind the Kingston Rotunda. One of the residents came down to get his car and found her body by the front wheel. Come on, let’s get moving.’

Patrick recovered himself, grabbing his coat from the peg in the hall, but Suzanne stood. ‘Pat, no. There’ll be a team on it already; we’ll only be in the way if we pile in.’

He faced her, coat half on, glaring. ‘Try to stop me. Carmella – you coming?’

Carmella jumped up. ‘Yes, boss. Sorry, Gill.’ Jenny reached out a hand to her, but whether out of sympathy or restraint, Carmella wasn’t sure and didn’t really want to know.

‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ Suzanne said. ‘Gill, I’m so sorry. Come on, then, you two, we’ll take my car.’

The last thing Carmella saw when she glanced back over her shoulder was Simon, Gill and Jenny sitting in stunned silence at a table covered with half-full plates, meat already beginning to congeal in the gravy.

Chapter 34

Day 11 – Patrick

Patrick was sitting in his car again, his forehead resting on the steering wheel, his eyes squeezed tightly closed. He hadn’t felt this terrible since the day he’d found Gill incoherent on their stairs, and Bonnie half-dead upstairs in her cot.

His team’s offices were a taped-off crime scene now, so they had all been relocated to an empty office downstairs, provided with hot desks and computers to log onto the intranet to carry on with Operation Urchin while a different MIT swarmed over Wendy’s workspace. Over at the Rotunda, reporters with cameras and microphones jostled together trying to keep warm in the chill dawn light, laying claim to the best pitches, waiting for someone to come out and make a statement.

Patrick had held it together all night, listening to the SIO who had been assigned the investigation into Wendy’s murder, a sombre-faced DCI called Vanessa Strong, briefing the other murder investigation team.

He had held it together while DCI Strong instructed Daniel Hamlet to fast-track the post-mortem, feeling deeply relieved for the protocol that insisted a different team investigate a colleague’s death. He wasn’t sure he could have stomached watching Hamlet dissect poor Wendy.

He’d even held it together when Wendy’s mum, Sheryl, had rung from Wolverhampton and asked for him by name because she ‘knew how much Wendy had admired you, she talked about you all the time’. Through her sobs, Sheryl had brokenly repeated, ‘Why? Why? How could you let this happen? She was only twenty-five! Twenty-five!’

He hadn’t been able to tell her how he had let it happen, because he didn’t know. All he did know was that he had let it happen. He hadn’t stopped Wendy from going off under her own steam to meet God-knew who, or why. Hopefully he would know soon, once her mobile phone provider had sent over the records from her stolen phone, and once the lab had thoroughly gone through her computer, but he knew that even then it wouldn’t make him feel any better, not in the slightest.

One of his officers was dead, and he felt utterly responsible. If he hadn’t cut her off when she called him . . .

Winkler pitching up and shaking his head sadly and ostentatiously in his direction hadn’t helped either, the sanctimonious bastard, Pat thought.

But the final straw, after a very long night of straws, came when Suzanne summoned him into her temporary office. As he trudged across, he saw her standing in the doorway, holding an evidence bag containing a bright pink envelope. She had changed out of the grey dress she’d been wearing last night, but her hair was still in the same long, loose curls. Patrick wondered if she had been home, or whether perhaps Simon had brought her in a change of clothes.

‘What’s up?’ he asked, puzzled at how annoyed she looked. When he sat down, she closed the door and gestured at the evidence bag. Through the clear plastic he saw his own name handwritten on the front of the envelope.

‘Would you care to explain the meaning of this?’ Suzanne asked, in the sort of voice that almost made Pat wonder if she was messing with him.

‘Well, I would, if I had any idea what it is,’ he replied, picking it up and examining it. It wasn’t sealed, and when he lifted the envelope’s flap a flash of bright pink appeared. Puzzled, he pulled out a large Valentine’s card – a rather tacky teddy bear clutching a bunch of roses and heart-shaped balloons. Inside there was a message: TO PAT, YOU MAKE ME MELT LIKE CHOCOLATE. BE MY VALENTINE? LOVE FROM A SECRET ADMIRER XXX

He snorted. ‘Is this some kind of joke? Hardly the time or place. Why’s it in an evidence bag?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Patrick, are you insane? Of course it’s not a joke,’ Suzanne snapped back at him. ‘Strong’s team found it in Wendy’s locker.’

She paused to let the realisation sink in.

Patrick gazed speechless at the card, the words inscribed in Wendy’s neat round handwriting.

‘Oh no,’ he said eventually, unable to prevent tears springing into his eyes. He cleared his throat noisily. ‘Oh God.’

‘Is there something you’d like to tell me, Patrick?’

Pat had never heard her use such a frosty voice. When he looked at her, despite the curled hair and still made-up face, she was almost unrecognisable from the relaxed woman who had sat at his dinner table just hours before, laughing and chatting . . . oh, he thought, apart from that awkward little spat she and Gill had had . . . What had that been about? Not that it mattered in the slightest now.

He shook his head. ‘Absolutely not. I had no idea she felt like that towards me. If I’d known, I’d have assigned her to a different team. I’m not an idiot.’

Was it true, he asked himself, that he’d had no idea? If he was honest, he had suspected it for some time. Wendy’s eagerness to please – the same bloody eagerness that had doubtless got her killed – the way her big brown eyes became more puppyish when she gazed at him . . .

He pinched the bridge of his nose to try to regain control of his expression. ‘Poor kid,’ he said. ‘That poor kid.’

‘You sure you had no idea?’

Patrick felt himself getting riled. ‘The clue’s in the words “secret admirer”, Suzanne.’

Tension bristled in the air between them. There was silence for a few moments, broken only by the sound of an early morning cleaner banging a hoover into the corners of the corridor outside.

‘OK. Rather unfortunate timing, that’s all. What are you going to do now?’

Patrick ran his hand through his hair. He hated it when Suzanne was cold with him – although that was currently the least of his problems. ‘I need to get out of here. I’m going to take Carmella and go and speak to that bodyguard guy, Kerry Mangan. Barrett gave me his name – sounds a bit shady. I’m not overly optimistic he’ll know anything, but it’s worth following up.’

Suzanne nodded. She wasn’t smiling, but her voice was softer and she held his gaze. ‘Right. You do that. Let DCI Strong’s team figure out who Wendy was going to meet last night – you need to distance yourself from that for now, OK?’

He shook his head. ‘Wendy called me last night, told me she’d made contact with . . . Well, that’s as far as she got before I cut her off. But she must have meant she’d made contact with somebody connected to Operation Urchin. That’s who she was going to meet. And either that person killed her, or the guy who killed Rose and Jessica found out and stopped her.’

Suzanne’s expression changed straight back to icy. ‘You spoke to her? Last night?’

He hung his head.

Suzanne exhaled. ‘OK. Listen. You need to pass this information on to Strong. Let her deal with it. You’re too emotionally involved. Let Vanessa handle that side of the investigation – and you concentrate on our two teenage victims. Unless you think it’s too much for you. I could let Winkler—’

‘No! No way.’ He could feel his cheeks burning. ‘This is my case.’

As he said this he heard a whisper of doubt. This investigation was ridiculously over-complicated, what with Patrick concentrating on the teenagers, Winkler on Nancy Marr and now Strong taking the lead with Wendy. Maybe he should step back, let Winkler take over; simplify everything.

But the way his stomach clenched as this thought raced through his head told him he could never allow that to happen.

Without a word, Patrick got up to walk out of the office. He was shaking with anger and emotion.

‘Pat?’ Suzanne called, just as he was going through the door.

‘Yeah?’ He didn’t turn around.

‘Thanks for your hospitality last night. Please thank Gill for a lovely dinner.’

He snorted. ‘It should never have happened, not in the middle of an investigation, and you know it. Wendy might still be alive if I hadn’t been too busy greeting guests to talk to her properly. But I didn’t listen to her, and now she’s dead.’

It was only later, leaning on a wall outside in the car park trying to gather his thoughts, that something occurred to him through the maelstrom of emotion whirling around in his head: could Suzanne be jealous that Wendy had had a crush on him?

He immediately dismissed the thought as ridiculous and narcissistic. Taking a few long drags of his e-cigarette, his resolution hardened. He understood the protocol, knew why the investigation into Wendy’s death had to be kept separate. But he was convinced the same man had killed all three victims – and possibly Nancy Marr, though he was still unsure about that. If he had to tread on Strong’s toes in order to catch that person, so be it. Justice was more important than protocol. And if he committed career suicide but found the killer, it would be worth it.