An Unfamiliar Murder (13 page)

“Yes, sir. Shall I take a copy for DS Carter?”

“No need to bother him at the moment. He’s up to his eyes in it. I’ll
brief him if it comes to anything. OK?”

Jessica swallowed. “OK,” she said. Despite policy requiring all enquiries
to be cross referenced through the Holmes system managed by DS Carter, she
passed the piece of paper over. Must be alright, she resolved to herself. After
all, he was boss’ deputy, wasn’t he?

 

*
* *

 

Anna watched
Ross finish his cereal and gaggle back his coffee.

“Thanks for making me breakfast.” He looked up and smiled, revealing bits
of cereal between his teeth.

“It’s only Weetabix.”

He shrugged. “Thanks anyway. What are you up to today?”

She gazed out the window at the bare tree branches dancing in the wind. “I
don’t know. I’d love to go for a ride but my bike is still at the police
station.”

“Borrow one of mine.”

She smiled and looked back at him. “What about the
Brompton
?”
The
Brompton
was Ross’ newest addition to his little
collection of cycles, his current favorite.

His eyes widened teasingly, a smile tickling his lips. Instinctively, she
reached out to punch him. “Yeah, sure,” he said, as he dodged her fist. “Just
make sure you fold it and take it wherever you go. It’s a thief’s market at the
moment.”

“No problem. I also need to get some clothes from the flat.” She flinched
inwardly. It felt strange to call it ‘the flat’ and not home. But the truth of
the matter was that it wasn’t home at the moment. Recent events made sure of
that.

“Are you going on your own?”

“It’s my flat, isn’t it?”

Ross blinked in surprise, his face tightening. “I just thought that you
might want to go with someone at first, especially after what happened.”

“I’m sure that the killer hasn’t broken down police cordons and planted
another body,” she replied, hoping that he wouldn’t see through her bravado.

“Ha
ha
,” he said sarcastically, but concern was
still etched on his face. “If you wait until tonight I’ll take you over myself?”

“I can’t. I couldn’t possibly go another day without clean underwear.”
She gave him a cheeky stare and he laughed.

“Not a bad thought,” he said, his eyes glancing into space.

“Be serious!”

“Well, borrow my car if you want, or go commando and I’ll take you
tonight, it’s your choice. I’m going in on my mountain bike.”

She could feel a hum in her pocket and pulled out her phone. “Hello!”

“Anna, how are you?”

“Hi, Dad. I’m fine, thank you.” She nodded to Ross, pointed to the phone
and moved out into the lounge.

“Just wanted to give you your messages.”

“Messages?”

“Yes, you’ve got quite a few. I guess when your friends can’t reach you
on your old mobile, they’re ringing here.”

“Oh, sorry about that. Who called?”

She listened to her father reel off a list of her friends, work
colleagues, even an ex-boyfriend who had asked after her welfare. It seemed
that the news of the weekend’s events had spread like wildfire in the bush. She
made a mental note to call some of them when the murderer had been apprehended
and some kind of normality returned to her life. Not for one moment did she
entertain the thought that the offender may not be caught. To Anna, it was just
a matter of time.

“Thanks Dad. If anyone else rings, just tell them I’ll be in touch soon.”

“There’s another one.”

“Oh?”

“Robert
McCafferty
phoned.” His voice was tainted
with anxiety.

Anna could feel her heart beat accelerate. “Oh . . .” She tried to keep
her voice calm. “Did he leave a number?”

“Yes.”

“Will you text it over to me?” She cringed as she spoke the words.

“Sure. If that’s what you want.” He sounded dejected.

 
She cringed again.
This is uncomfortable
. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Anna?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t do anything rash, will you?”

“What do you mean?” she said, wrinkling her nose dubiously.

“If you decide to meet him, promise me something?”

“What?”

“He’s a stranger to you. Make sure you take somebody with you?”

“Of course. I’m not a complete idiot.” Then keen to change the subject,
she quickly asked, “How’s Mum?”

“She’ll cope.”
No change there
then.
She heard Ross coming down the stairs. “Listen, I have to go. Thanks
again, Dad.”

“OK, bye.” She clicked to end the call just as Ross walked through into
the lounge in his cycling kit, rucksack on back.

“Everything alright?”

“Fine, thanks. That was Dad on the phone.”

“So I heard. How are things?”

“Mum’s still stressing, you know what she’s like.”

“Sure,” he smiled sympathetically. “I’ll see you later then. Have a good
day.” He put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to him briefly as
he pecked her cheek and headed out. She listened as he maneuvered his bike out
through the hallway, slamming the front door behind him.

Anna stood still for a moment, then glanced at her mobile phone, still in
hand. In a few moments she would receive her brother’s number. Should she call
him straight away? Perhaps not, perhaps she should wait until Ross was back and
call him that evening? No, if she had meant to wait for Ross she would have mentioned
it to him before he left for work . . .
This
is something I have to do on my own.

Anna stood under the shower for far longer than the usual perfunctory
five minutes it took to shampoo and condition her hair, lather and rinse her
body. Today she had time and she indulged, enjoying the spattering of water on
her face, turning so that it ran down her back and through her legs until they
were red raw. It seemed to be cleansing more than her skin this morning, the
water penetrating beneath the surface.

By the time she wandered out of the bathroom in Ross’ robe, hair bound in
a towel which resembled a makeshift turban, she felt more relaxed than she had
in days. She picked up her phone and examined it. The text message had arrived.
She straightened her body, took a deep breath to steel any remaining courage,
retrieved the number and pressed dial.

Counting the rings, a habit which oddly seemed to calm her acute rush of
nerves – one, two, three; she stopped suddenly when a voice answered.

“Hello?” The male voice sounded smooth, friendly.

“May I speak to Robert
McCafferty
please?”

“Speaking.” She drew a short, sharp breath, unable to speak. “Is that
Anna?” His tone was gentle.

“Yes.”
He doesn’t sound like a
criminal.
Anna flinched as soon as those words sprung into her mind. What
was someone with a criminal record supposed to sound like?

“I thought so. Thank you so much for calling.”

“OK,” she answered, cringing at her unobtrusive inflection. She couldn’t
think of anything else to say.

 
“How are you?”

“Good thanks.”

“Great. Listen, would you like to meet up?”

“Umm . . .” She hesitated momentarily, remembering her father’s warning.
Then, scolding herself inwardly for allowing the only information she had heard
about her brother’s life – whether right or wrong - to color her first
impression of him, she spoke quickly. “OK. When?” She had to give him the benefit
of doubt. If he had, indeed, served a prison sentence, he could be a reformed
character now. Innocent until proven guilty, isn’t that right?

“Are you doing anything this afternoon?”

“No.” She reached up to support the towel which was starting to unravel
on her head.

 
“Do you know Cafe Cliché on

Feveral
Street
in Weston?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Would you like to meet there at, say, three o’clock?”

“That would be good.”

“Great, see you there.”

She clicked the button to end the call just as the towel finally gave up
and slipped down her back. It had taken less than two minutes.

 

*
* *

 

Anna was
flabbergasted at the scene she faced when she turned into

Flax Street
later that morning. She
pulled in just past the corner, engine still running and surveyed the
spectacle: a group of people, some with notebooks, others with cameras, stood
directly outside the gap which led to her flat. The crowd of
Hamptonshire
press looked completely out of place in the
usually desolate
Flax Street
,
like an army of Wood Ants in the middle of a desert. She looked around her. A
police car was parked in the same position on the other side of the road.
Focusing on the gaps between the bodies, she could faintly see the uniform of a
constable blocking the aperture between the houses which led to the entrance of
her flat.

Thinking quickly, she carefully reversed the car around the corner so
that it was well out of sight. Grateful for Ross’ baseball cap that she had
used to cover her wet hair, she pulled it down over her face and got out of his
old, red escort. She briefly hesitated, considering whether or not to try the
back entrance but decided against it. In daylight that could draw even more
unwelcome attention.

Anna sauntered, head down, up the street and hung at the back of the
crowd. When she saw a small gap appearing she squeezed through it and gently
pushed herself to the front of the group. Suddenly, just as she reached the
police officer, somebody called out from behind, “Hey, who’s this?”

Immediately, she could feel all the eyes descend upon the back of her
neck as panic flooded her veins. “Hey, is that Anna Cottrell?” - another voice
from behind her shouted as the crowd pushed forward. She wasn’t sure whether
the police officer recognized her, or if it was the look of sheer desperation
in her eyes, but suddenly things moved very quickly.

An arm rushed forward, grabbed her shoulder and forced her into the
opening between the houses, shouting, “Go!” She ran for her life, through the
gap and up the stairs until she reached the entrance to 22a, her heart beating
fast.

The door was wide open and a man in blue overalls stood working on the
lock. “Hi!” he smiled. He jerked his head back towards the opening. “They’re
like vermin, aren’t they?” Anna didn’t answer. She pressed her lips together
and pushed past him, not sure if he knew who she was or why she was here.

Without thinking she opened the door and plunged into the lounge,
stopping dead in her tracks. The last time she had walked through here the
dead, bloody body of a man, now known to be her biological father, was sitting
up staring at her against the sofa. She closed her eyes and saw him, eyes wide
open, staring at her. Her head started to feel woozy, her feet stumbled and she
lent against the wall to steady herself. Time stood still.

Moments later there were voices behind her and the police officer
appeared in the doorway. “Anna? I’m PC
Cartland
. Are
you alright?”

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, surprised to see that he was
wearing glasses, a fact she hadn’t noticed outside. “I think so.” She looked
around the room. Anna didn’t know what state she expected to find her flat in.
Would the walls still be covered in blood, would her curtains be splattered,
the carpet covered in bodily fluids? She was almost surprised to see that there
was no blood. But it didn’t resemble her lounge room either. The walls had been
washed down, the carpet cleaned. A strong smell of lemon detergent filled the
air. The gold, gothic throw, usually strewn over the back of the sofa covered
the whole of it, no doubt concealing blood stains. The curtains had been
removed from the window and her collection of ornaments, photos and pictures
had been taken down from walls and shelves and were stacked neatly in the
corner.

“Who cleaned up?” she asked finally.

“Your landlord. Organized new locks too,”
Cartland
said.

She blinked, just as if she had been disturbed from a trance, and said, “What
about the press?”

“Oh, they won’t come up here. It’s more than their life’s worth.” His
smile fell as he glanced towards the door. “Getting you out of here might be a
bit more of a challenge though.”

She ignored his last comments. “I just need to get some stuff from the
bedroom.” She pointed towards the door which led out of the lounge. He nodded
and followed her through a small passageway which contained two doors, both of
which were open. A gleaming white bath could be seen through the first doorway,
a chair strewn with clothes the other. She stopped in her tracks and turned to
look at the policeman at the entrance to her bedroom.

He put his hands up. “I’ll leave you to it, Miss Cottrell. I’ll be
waiting outside.”

She waited until he had walked back through to the lounge, then crossed
the threshold into her bedroom. It looked pretty much as she had left it last
Friday morning: the duvet pulled roughly over the bed, an old jacket placed
over the clothes on the chair in the corner. The police would have been right
through it, checking everything, looking for clues, anything that may implicate
her in, or connect her, to the crime. She shuddered, a feeling of violation
pressing against her. If she had learned anything over the past few days it was
that nothing in her life was private anymore.

Anna moved over to the wardrobe and reached up to pull down her trolley
case. Then, changing her mind, she pushed it back and instead reached for her
old rucksack, the one she had used when she had traveled through Asia with a friend during their final summer holiday from
uni.
Fumbling through her wardrobe and into her drawers,
she started packing her clothes, shoes, coat, underwear, in a haphazard manner.