Absent Light (10 page)

She took the precaution of parking at the front of the studio. If anyone wanted to attack her again, they'd have to do it in front of a busy main road and passing pedestrians. She double-checked to see if she had company and, seeing none, stiffly got out of her car, recoiling from a bitter wind. By now the light had completely faded, making her hurry across the small car park to the front door. On the floor, just inside, was a thick padded envelope. She crouched down and picked it up. It was marked for her attention. She opened it. Carl had turned the prints around with impressive speed, she thought. Was it some kind of omen?

Her footsteps sounded loud in the surrounding silence, but everything was as she last left it. No messages flashing on the ansaphone. Nothing out of place in reception, or the small room used by clients for getting changed and retouching make-up, nothing disturbed in Ray's room or hers. The distance from the studio to the coach-house was minimal and, though she had to travel outside again into the garden, there was enough illumination from the undamaged security light attached to the wall of the studio to prove that she was alone. The only scary bit was hearing her own footsteps on the wooden veranda, the sound of her own ragged breathing, the chill of the thin night air whipping against her face. Once safely inside her home, she changed back into her sweatpants and top and, leaving the prints upstairs, went to the darkroom. She wasn't that keen on dealing with chemicals, but developing your own film was much easier than most people imagined, as long as you didn't mind working in the dark. Taking the film from her Leica, she shut herself in, snapped on a pair of disposable gloves, and ran through a ten-point programme of loading and pouring, agitating and timing, pouring and more pouring, then the final wash, to eliminate all chemical traces, before removing the excess with a squeegee, and clipping the finished film up to dry.

After helping herself to a glass of wine, she went back upstairs to the sitting room, sat down on the sofa and pulled out the photos from the lab. Who are you, she thought, staring into the woman's dark and mysterious eyes? What did you want with me? The finished versions made her seem more flesh and blood, Helen thought. She could see the lines around the eyes, the pores on the skin, moles on the cheeks. The woman's hair shone in the carefully distributed light. The smile that played across her full lips could almost be her own. As she gazed at the strong jaw-line, she couldn't help but consider the difference between the perfectly posed studio portrait and crime scene photograph. These pictures she held in her hand portrayed a rewritten past, a confident present, optimism for the future. A crime scene shot, by definition, was a negation of all faith and hope.

She got up, paced the room. If only she had the confidence to report it. It wasn't fair to load it on Stratton. In effect, she'd asked him to help her but had first gagged his mouth and tied his feet together. Maybe if…

No, Lou Crosbie had been a decent police officer, she reminded herself, but his occupational association with a corrupt D.I. meant that no self-respecting officer wanted to work with him. He was soiled goods. Nobody trusted him. Like the albatross, he was considered to be bad news, bad luck. If Lou could be run out of the force, Helen thought, she stood no chance.

In an effort to distract her thinking, she selected a favourite book on photography from her collection. Taking it back to the sofa, like a dog retreating to its favourite lair with a bone, she flicked through the pages, her eyes lingering on a luscious section on fashion photography depicting the work of Helmut Newton. She was immediately transported to another world, a world of luxury where women were strong and powerful and earthy. As she flicked through the pages and gazed into Newton's dark and sexy depictions of his privileged subjects, she felt a spectral chill. She glanced up, put a hand to the back of her neck as if to smooth the hairs back down, catching the eye of the woman in the photographs. She was essentially a stranger, Helen mused. Their paths had never touched or crossed before. Some link to the past, therefore, seemed unlikely. Stratton confirmed it. But…

She couldn't shake it off. Whether it was guilt, paranoia, or some deep longing to feel connected in a way she'd once felt before, she believed that Adam was in the mix somewhere.

Perhaps Freya was the bait with which to reel her in.

If she was right, it had worked. If it were true, she knew a way to find out.

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
HE NEXT MORNING SHE
got up to a downcast day. Staring at herself in the bedroom mirror, she saw that the swelling in her thigh was undiminished, the cuts were scabbing over and her injured skin was turning a dramatic shade of amethyst. She felt stiffer than ever, as if her muscles and joints had shrunk overnight.

Determined to disprove her own reflection, she dressed in a long skirt and sweater, hid her battered legs with a thick pair of black tights, and slipped on a pair of loafers. After making and drinking two mugs of coffee, she retired to the darkroom where she spent an entire morning fiddling with the finished film from her camera, producing contact sheets, test sheets, experimenting with exposure, until she finally yelled
hallelujah
and hung up several enlargements to dry. She was on a mission, but it would be at least another twelve hours before she could examine the results of her handiwork. Even then, she wasn't sure what, if anything, might be revealed.

But, in the meantime, she had another idea. It was risky, maybe reckless, but it was worth a shot.

It took her twenty-five minutes to drive through lunch-time traffic and find a suitable parking slot in the Jewellery Quarter, a maze of streets and historic buildings, where every type of jeweller and goldsmith could be found.

For ten more minutes, she waited, drumming her fingers, thinking, reminding herself of what she already knew about the woman who'd been Adam Roscoe's wife.

“You're married,” she said dully. She'd collared Adam in a corridor and dragged him into a side-room so she could confront him with it.

“Only in name,” he assured her.

“Isn't that what all married men say? Next you'll be telling me your wife doesn't understand you.” She wondered what his wife was like, dark and flashing, like him, mercurial?

“Helen,” he said stroking her cheek.

“Don't,” she said, brittle.

“We lead separate lives, honey.”

She gave a hollow laugh. “You expect me to believe that?”

“It's the truth.”

“Why live together at all?”

“Apathy.”

“Not because of the children?”

“There are no children.”

Thank God, for that, she thought. She crossed her arms in front of her. “What's her name?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.” She was curious.

“Robyn.”

“That's unusual.”

“She's American.”

“What does she do?”

“Helen,” he sighed, trying to placate her.

She repeated the question. She wanted to know exactly what and whom she was dealing with.

“She buys and sells art, paintings, mostly. She has her own gallery.”

“Sounds glamorous.” And lucrative, Helen thought. Most corrupt officers were motivated by greed. In spite of the rumours, Adam definitely wasn't one of them.

“Only if you're interested.”

She cast him a searching look. “So what went wrong between the two of you?” A stupid question. She'd only get his blinkered side of it. She guessed she was hoping for an explanation she could live with. Women did it the world over. Finding themselves drawn irresistibly to unsuitable men and falling in love with them, itself a kind of madness, they then tried to find reasons to justify their insanity.

He pushed a lock of her long dark hair behind her ear. “You know what the job's like, the pressures, the shit we have to deal with day in, day out. Not exactly the type of stuff you discuss over a candlelit dinner for two.”

“Yes, but…”

His cell phone went. He offered an apologetic smile, stood up, walked away. She watched a vein pulse in his neck, listened to the charge in his voice, heard the chill.

“Yes…calm down. It's all right. Breathe, fuck you, and tell me what happened…Uh-huh. Don't worry, it can be sorted.” He looked at his watch. “Be with you in ten. Don't move. Don't walk away. Don't disturb anything. You hear me?” He cut the call, opened his arms to her. “Sorry, my love. Duty calls.”

Ugly rumours, Stratton said. She knew. She understood.

Adam wrapped his arms around her, whispered in her ear. “I need you and you need me. We're tuned-in to each other. We're soul-mates, you and I.”

And as she looked into his eyes, she wanted so badly to believe him. “Then leave your wife,” she said.

“I will.”

But he never did.

They broke up for a bit after that, she remembered. That's the way their relationship played out: six months on, several months apart. She always promised herself she'd never slide back but something always happened to change her mind. It would be that look, that phone call, that touch of his hand, or that need in the night, which led to her downfall.

And to his, she thought, getting out of the car and slamming the door shut.

She walked round the corner from Ludgate Hill and into St Paul's Square, past The Jam House, a restaurant and renowned jazz club, crossing over near St Paul's Church, passing a letting agency on the corner, mentally cranking herself up. She reckoned she had two advantages: surprise and the fact that neither she nor Robyn had ever met.

The gallery, which was next to a pub called The Rope Walk, housed a collection of work by contemporary artists, some to her taste, most not. Carefully lit, with dark olive-green walls, it had the hushed air of a library. She went in, passing a smart-looking middle-aged couple on their way out, and felt her shoes sink into the carpet pile as she crossed the floor. Feigning interest, she walked straight over to a painting of a young woman wearing jeans and a leather jacket, smoking a cigarette. The artist was Spanish. She'd never heard of him.

“Glamorous, isn't it?” A sultry-looking black girl in her late twenties, poised and stately, glanced up from a smart iMac G5.

“And contemporary,” Helen smiled, noting that the price of the painting was £15,000.

“That's the artist's wife,” the black girl said, getting up. “She figures in quite a lot of his work. He's very keen on focusing on the sensual quality of the female form. We have some more paintings round the other side, if you're interested.

“Thank you.”

“You're happy to browse?”

“Absolutely,” Helen smiled.

“If you require any further information, let me know,” the black girl said, smoothly returning to her desk to resume her duties.

Good, Helen thought, friendly but not pushy. She took her time, first studying a collection of bronzes, and then returning her attention to the paintings. She made two observations: the average price was a shade under £30,000, and most of the works of art were far too large to hang in an ordinary-sized house, indicating that they might be more suitable for a private collection.

The phone rang. Helen listened as the black girl raved to the caller about a particular piece of work that the gallery had managed to acquire.

“We thought it just the sort of piece you've been looking for,” she said. “We'd be delighted to arrange a private viewing.”

Helen waited until the black girl finished the call then casually sauntered towards her.

“Would it be possible to speak to Robyn Roscoe?” Helen said.

“I'm afraid not. She isn't here.”

Helen smiled. “Could you tell me when she's available?”

“You wish to make an appointment?”

“Well, if you could tell me when she's free, I could arrange to pop in.”

The black girl's eyes darkened.

“Or maybe I'll catch her at home, Kellerman Drive, isn't it?” Helen said, using the oldest trick in the book. She was waiting for the contradiction, the trading of information.

The black girl's brow creased with concern. She wasn't falling for it, Helen thought. “May I ask what this is in connection with?” There was a hint of suspicion in her voice.

“It's a personal matter,” Helen continued to smile.

“I see.” The eyes were unrelenting. “Well, I'm afraid Mrs Roscoe is in the States. She flies back tomorrow morning. We expect her back in on Monday.”

“Right,” Helen said, “thanks very much.”

The girl's eyes fastened back on the iMac. She clicked the mouse several times. “So when did you wish to come in?”

“Monday would be good.”

“She's tied up first thing but I could slot you in at three o' clock.”

“Great.”

“And your name?”

Helen felt her nerves prickle. This wasn't how she planned it. “Tell her I knew her husband,” she said, making swiftly for the door.

Unsettled, she decided to light a fire in the sitting room. She took her time, lighting small pieces of wood to start with, adding a few more sticks, a little more paper then the coal. As the flames caught, causing the fire to sputter into life, it sounded like falling rain. She hoped it would make her feel safe and protected. It didn't.

She tried not to think about what was happening to her. She didn't want to try and slot the pieces together, to think about the mystery client, the Roscoes, Jacks. She'd actually been tempted to visit him. Jacks was locked up in Winson Green, an old, bleak Victorian prison that had undergone major expansion and renovation after coming in for severe criticism for its terrible conditions. However, it was unlikely she'd be granted a pass, and, in order to get one, she'd have to do a lot of explaining. Best left to Stratton, she judged.

After a while of sitting and staring, she made herself cheese on toast and ate it upstairs with a cup of tea, flicking through a book on Cartier-Bresson, not really looking at the text or pictures at all. Flames from the fire played shadows across the wall and, as she glanced up in the half-light, her mind suddenly clamoured with long-dead and forgotten ghosts: the suicides who, too late, had tried to change their minds, the women who fought for their lives and lost, the battered child, the drug-addicts, the road casualties,
Rose Buchanan
.

The knife and fork clattered against the plate.

As first in line, she'd seen the torn holes, the blood-spattered walls, the gunshot wounds, bruises and cigarette burns, the violated and defiled. She'd witnessed the cruelty and carnage of drug-fuelled murders, the violence of the fatal domestic, the senselessness of
honour
killings. She'd seen victims bumped off by a nobody who wanted to be a somebody. She'd examined the results of a flash-in-the-pan loss of temper and the final conclusion of systematic, daily warfare. There was a common misconception that Scenes of Crime was no job for a woman, but the truth was that mental stamina was more important than physical strength.

Sitting in the silence, the bald truth hit her like a blow between the eyes. Although she currently enjoyed being a portrait photographer, she missed the sense of doing something that counted. She always would.

She picked up her knife and fork again. The cheese had gone cold and chewy. She prodded it gingerly. It felt like dead flesh.

Helen studied each of the enlargements. The first few shots revealed an accurate record of the scene. No details to add. Nothing missed. Nothing of significance. When she examined the shot of the flattened grass, however, something caught her eye. At first, she wondered whether it was a scratch on the print, easily done when processing your own film, but, after taking a closer look, she could see that there was something definite near where the grass met the road. Whatever it was looked small, hoop-shaped, but she couldn't make it out and decided to take another look at the spot.

By now, the sky was the colour of ash, the usual drone of traffic muted by the cold. Helen walked down the garden, slipped through the gate and out onto the private drive, walking the short distance, the enlarged print in one hand, a pair of vinyl disposable gloves in the other. Crouching down for a second look, she pulled on the gloves and examined the area of road and grass again, touching it with her fingertips, inch by inch. That's when she saw it, or what was left of it. She picked it up with her fingers, rolled it in the palm of her hand. Flattened by a passing car, she might have mistaken it for a coin except it looked like real gold: a single hoop ear-ring.

She wondered whether it belonged to Freya Stephens.

He looked less gaunt, less austere in casual clothes, she thought. Stratton was wearing a navy shirt, tan leather jacket and jeans and he carried a slim-line box file. He smelt of something aromatic, musk, sandalwood, maybe. He hadn't shaved and there was shadow on his jaw. She offered him a glass of wine and he accepted. She briefly wondered whether to put on some music and changed her mind. She worried that the lighting was too low – didn't want him getting the wrong impression.

“Keeping all right?” Stratton said, laying the file down next to him. Simple enough in sound, she thought, but in truth, fully loaded.

“I haven't been mugged or run down lately,” she said, twitching a smile. “Take a look at these,” she said, handing him the prints. As he studied them she noticed his particularly dark colouring, as if he had Italian blood in the family. His nose was straight, lashes unusually long, eyes, in the half-light, almost black.

“What's that?” he said, picking out the shot where the flattened verge joined the drive.

“This,” she said, holding up the remains of the ear-ring in a clean, clear plastic bag. The gesture reminded her of old times. She'd often held up evidence bags, sometimes containing the remnants of someone's life.

Stratton took it and glanced up at her. “Not exactly cast-iron evidence, is it?”

“Might belong to Miss Stephens.”

“Could belong to anyone.”

She conceded with a smile and sipped her drink. It had never been her job to investigate, just to collect and log the evidence. A certain amount of knowledge inevitably filtered through – especially when you're sleeping with a high-flying policeman. Like a kind of osmosis, you couldn't help but absorb some of the thinking that drove an investigation, namely: don't make it personal, don't get ahead of the evidence, and do not take any short cuts. Not that Adam ever seemed to take that much notice. Maybe, that's why, so far, she'd failed on every count.