Falling (28 page)

Chapter 47

Tom – Tuesday, 28th March – 8.09am

Tom shrugged his coat off, slinging it onto the back of the desk chair. He didn’t sit though, not for a moment, standing looking over the deserted Swansea streets. The magistrates court was still closed for now, would spring to life later. The doorway, usually littered with the guilty and the innocent alike, blowing dark smoke into the busy street, now locked up tight, floor to ceiling windows bouncing sunlight onto the rapidly melting snow. The temperatures were starting to rise, a full blown thaw beginning. It wouldn’t be long before all the snow had melted away.

The CID office was empty. Desks littered with papers, chairs pushed back, all waiting. Something knotted in his stomach. Guilt. He shouldn’t have come in today. Should have stayed with his son. He hadn’t told Ben that his mother had left, had banked on him not noticing, had dressed him and given him breakfast. I’m sorry, buddy, but I’ve got to go into work for a couple of hours. Not long I promise. You okay going to see Grandma? Ben had shaken his head, cheeks billowing with cocoa pops, chin stained a chocolate brown. I go with you, Daddy. I see Maddie. A smile, a feeling like his heart would break. Not today, kiddo.

Tom slid into the chair, pain lancing through his shoulder. They needed a holiday. Just the two of them. They would go, somewhere that Ben would enjoy. Maybe Florida. Once this was done. He glanced at his watch, wondered what Jim was doing now. Whether he had slept, with the bleeping of machines, the nurses checking him every hour. They would go on holidays, but first this had to be done. Jim had asked him to keep him informed, tell him what he found. He deserved to know this. Wouldn’t bring his daughter back but still, the truth can set you free. Glanced at his watch again, even though it was seconds since he’d done it the last time. Once he had done this, once he was sure, he’d drive down there, tell him face to face.

Pulled the phone towards him, even though it was early. Punched in a number on the card taped to the phone. Listened as the phone connected. Started to ring. Allowed himself to wonder, just for a moment, where Cecilia had gone last night. Then pushing it away because he had other things to deal with, and, ultimately, what did it matter to him any more? He was almost startled when the ringing stopped, a voice on the other end, singsong, and far too bright for a morning like this.

“Hello, Forensic Sciences, Gillian speaking.”

“Hi, Gillian. It’s DC Tom Allison from South Wales Police.”

“Hello, Tom. How are you on this fine morning?”

“I’m fine. Look, I know it’s early.”

“No, no, we’re all done. I finished it off myself this morning.”

“What have we got?”

“We had a look at the glove. The one you so kindly provided us with. We found a small area of blood in between the thumb and index finger.”

“And?”

“The blood is a match to that of Libby Hanover.”

“Shit.”

“Indeed. We also looked for DNA, skin cells and that kind of thing, inside the glove. Now, your very handsome partner so kindly brought in Oliver Blake’s hairbrush. I understand that his daughter volunteered it? Now, we compared the DNA that we found inside the glove to that lifted from Mr Blake’s hairbrush. They were a match.”

“So the gloves were worn by Oliver Blake? What does that mean? We got him?”

“Not exactly.”

There were footsteps, just outside, a heavy tread, the door swinging open. Dan stopped when he saw him, a frown, mouth shaping words. You okay? Tom nodded quickly. “Sorry, say again?”

“I said, not exactly. Things are a little more complicated than we were expecting. Now, like I said, the blood on the glove was Libby’s, the DNA inside of the glove was that of Oliver Blake. But the PM also threw up skin cells under her nails which the pathologist concluded were likely to have come from her attacker.”

“Okay?”

“Those skin cells belonged to someone else.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Tom closed his eyes, could feel himself sliding down in the chair, could feel Dan’s eyes on him, wants to throw the phone, just pick it up, lob the whole thing through the mirrored glass window and go home, back where he should be, with his son, celebrating his birthday as best they could.

“Calm, detective. Breathe. I haven’t gotten to the really interesting bit yet, and if you’re not a good boy, you won’t get to hear the real headlines.”

“What’s that?”

“Well now, the skin cells that were found under Libby’s fingernails, the DNA isn’t a match to that of Oliver Blake. It is, however, pretty close.”

“What does pretty close mean?”

“Well, detective, let me tell you. We can do some pretty fancy stuff here. I mean, I am an expert, you know.”

“Impressive.” Tom mumbled.

“Isn’t it? Anyway, we had a look at something called short tandem repeats on the Y chromosome. I won’t bore you with the details.”

“Too late.”

“Oh, Tom. You wound me. But despite that, I am willing to give you a little present. Call it a good will gesture. What our testing has shown is that whilst the skin cells don’t come from Oliver Blake. They do however, come from someone to whom he was very closely related. Someone male. A son, perhaps.”

Chapter 48

Tom – Tuesday, 27th March – 9.20am

The phone rang, and rang, and rang. Tom gritted his teeth, hand pressing against the dashboard as Dan took a bend hard, engine whirring from the pressure. Pulled the phone from his ear, glancing at the display, hoping that he had dialled the wrong number, that he had called the house instead of her mobile, and of course she wouldn’t be there. Cecilia mobile.

“You okay?”

“Been better.”

“What’s…?”

“It’s over. She’s gone.”

Dan looked across at him. “Shit, mate. I’m sorry. What happened?”

Tom didn’t look at him, stared at the road ahead. “We talked. Decided it was for the best.” He gestured to the phone. “And now I’m chasing her again. The kid, Richard Blake? I saw him at the memorial service. Didn’t know it was him at the time. But then Freya mentioned it and I put two and two together. He was staring at Cecilia. And there was something…I found footprints in the garden, under our kitchen window in the snow. I think it was him. I think he was watching Cecilia.”

There was silence, Dan processing this. “You think…”

“I think that a murderer was watching my wife.” Forgetting for a moment that she’s not his wife any more. “And I think that now I can’t find her.”

Dan glanced across at him. “Try her again.”

Pushing buttons, car skewing on slick roads. It could just be that she wasn’t speaking to him, didn’t want to answer. She was probably sitting somewhere, maybe in some hotel, probably nowhere near Richard Blake, staring at her phone, Tom’s name on the caller ID, letting it ring. She couldn’t know that he wasn’t begging her to come home.

“Anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t think he would have…?”

“I don’t know.”

“No. No. Best not to think the worst. No point, really.”

What was the worst? That he’d killed before. That he’d already dragged one lifeless body to a snowbound river bank, dumping it before returning to his life. That this boy had been watching his wife. That he couldn’t find her.

Breathe. Breathe. “Look, I’m probably getting carried away. It’s probably nothing. The calls, I mean…It probably wasn’t even him.”

“Yeah. Probably.” Dan wasn’t looking at him. “I put out an observation request on the Mercedes. We’ll find him.”

“Yeah.”

“Try her again.”

The phone rang and rang.

Dan braked sharp, banking the kerb as though he’d never driven before. The driveway was empty, the windows of the large double fronted house staring blankly out at them.

Tom slipped his seatbelt off, climbing from the car, pushing the door closed behind him. Rapid steps down the drive. Pushed his thumb hard against the doorbell. There was a shape, coalescing behind the stained glass. He could feel himself tensing, fingers flexing, tight from the cold. Dan’s bulk beside him. The door pulling open, a breeze of warm air.

Freya started when she saw them, gaze falling to Dan. A tentative smile. Then a new emotion, crowding in on top of the old, the realisation that this isn’t a social call. Her shoulders pull themselves in, bracing herself for what’s to come.

“Freya.” Dan’s voice was softer than he was used to hearing it, apologetic almost. “Your brother, Richard, is he here?”

“No.” She frowned, looked confused. “Why?”

“We…we need to find him.”

She stood there for a moment, studying them, and then a new shadow crosses her face. She sways, like a boxer that has taken too many hits, buckling from the final blow. Dan stepped forward, reaching for her arms.

“No. I…no. That’s ridiculous.” She let out a laugh, more of a squawk. “For god’s sake. That’s absurd. He’s a kid.”

“Freya. I need you to listen to me. I am so sorry, and I know you’ve been through so much. But we
have
to find him.”

Looking at Dan, small hands clinging to his thick wrists. Looks like she will fall down without them.

Then, slowly, face creased in pain, she righted herself.

“He didn’t do this. He wouldn’t do this. I…look, I think I know where he might be. I’ll take you to him and he can tell you. You’re wrong. Let’s…let’s just go, and you’ll see that you’re wrong.”

Chapter 49

Freya – Tuesday, 27th March – 10.00am

They were wrong. That was all there was to it. There had been some mistake. And whatever the forensic evidence said, whatever the DNA said, there would be some explanation. Because this was her baby brother. The little boy that she had carried around the house, cradling like a doll, had caught up in her arms when he took his first steps, and defended when the mean kids picked on him in school. And there was a space in her head for a father who could cause death, reap destruction with the force of his own self-involvement. There was even room, if she worked really hard and twisted it and turned it, for a mother who lashes out because she’s been hurt so many times and because she can’t stand for her life to be like this and because she’s so, so angry.

But not this.

She couldn’t fit this. This one didn’t make sense.

They would find him, and they would talk to him, and he would explain and then the detectives would understand.

The other one, Tom, he was driving now, steering them gut churningly fast around mountain roads. Dan kept glancing over his shoulder, trying to meet her eye. Freya looked out of the window, tried to ignore the tears that simply would not stop falling.

Couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it. Because if she did, and if this was true, then she had been just as blind, just as willfully self-deceiving as the family that she had judged so harshly.

Tom slowed down as they hit Talgarth, easing the car through the narrow streets. And there was the Mercedes, parked at a dog leg angle, the front tires riding the pavement in front of the church, a swathe through the snow, its rear bisecting the carriageway. Sunlight glinted from it, dazzling.

The detective stopped the car, braking too hard so that their bodies lunged against the seatbelts. Freya pushed open the door and it swung open, almost sideswiping a Ford KA. She slammed the door shut, taking off at a run. The village was beginning to wake, stirring from its sleep. Voices, laughter, coming from somewhere she couldn’t identify. The smell of bread baking, cinammon and honey. Smoke curling from chimneys. Her winter boots slipping in the slush. She ducked down a side street, in through the wrought iron gate. The churchyard was still, deathly quiet.

The church was locked up, porch barred against the people who would defile a house of God. Freya stopped, pulled up sharp. For a moment didn’t know where to go. Had been so sure. She spun on the spot, looking at the gravestones, the overhanging trees were he had hidden before. But there was no-one. Just her, the detectives following close in her wake.

She had to find him. She had to find him. Because if she found him then he could explain. And it would be something perfectly reasonable and logical and Dan’s face would lift with relief, and they could go back to where they were, which, bad as that had been still remained infinitely better than this.

Her gaze rolled across the yew trees and the houses, climbing up to the mountain. Then she was running again, pushing past Dan, slipping, sliding. Along the pavement, onto winding roads still quilted in snow, overhung by bare dancing branches.

The police tape remained. The ruined building, the charred metal, layered with snow. And her brother kneeling on the bitter cold ground, his head bowed forward. For a heart chilling second, Freya thought that he was dead.

“Richard!”

But there was movement, a stirring, and then she heard something else, the sound of sobbing.

“Richard.”

She reached him, her hand gripping his shoulder. Ducked down beside him, where she could see his lip trembling, round tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Richard? Honey. What is it? Richard? I need you to tell me what happened.”

There was a sound behind her, the quick crunching of footsteps on snow, and she glanced back, even though she knew without seeing. She held out her hand, her palm out, and Dan slowed, stretching his hand to slow his partner.

“Richard?” She sank onto her knees, the cold gnawing through her jeans, put her arm around her brother. “I need you to tell me the truth.”

Chapter 50

Richard – Tuesday, 27th March – 10.05am

Richard was sinking into the snow, the cold clawing at him, promising to swallow him whole. Didn’t mind that though. At least then it would be over. Looked at his sister, swimming in and out of focus. Knew that he shouldn’t say it. Should do what his father told him to do and just keep his mouth shut. But she’s looking at him, really looking, right into his eyes, and her hand is clutching his, and it’s like a promise, that she can pull him back over this cliff edge that he is clinging to.