The Truth Will Out (25 page)

But Eva had liked Detective Chief Inspector Lavery. She had an easy way about her. She came to meet her alone, without an entourage of panda cars or uniformed officers like they did in TV dramas. And somehow, sharing the story, her story, a story that had corroded her insides, slowly poisoning her over the past week had felt like a huge relief.

She slid down the door, into a seated position, teardrops spotting the pale pink carpet. How had she got herself into this? Two weeks ago, she was a normal twenty-three-year-old, down on her luck perhaps, working a job she hated with a bank balance that couldn’t meet the rent. But she was safe. Now she was all of the above and her life was at risk. When the detective met her earlier she felt like a fish, stranded in a rockpool when the tide receded. Now she felt like the tide was rushing back in to meet her, but she wasn’t sure what it was bringing with it.

Chapter
Twenty-Seven

It was almost eight o’clock when Helen arrived home that evening. As she inserted the key, the door opened from the inside to reveal Robert’s anxious face. Helen started. “Hi, you,” she said. “Everything alright?” It had been many years since her boys had come to meet her at the door.

“Gran’s sick,” he said, moving aside to let her through.

“Oh dear.” Helen crossed the threshold and dropped her briefcase below the coat stand. “How sick?”

“She’s gone to bed with a bucket.”

Helen pulled her coat off and threw it over an empty hook. “I’d better go check on her.”

“I’m supposed to be at Jack’s for a sleepover,” he said, sheepishly.

“Oh. Where’s Auntie Jo?”

“An old friend collected her. Won’t be back until late.”

“Right.” She half recalled her mother mentioning something.

“Can you take me to Jack’s?”

She rummaged through the pocket in her coat to retrieve her mobile before turning to face her youngest son. “I need to check on Gran.”

Helen heard him huff as he slunk off into the lounge, and sighed. He was probably still smarting from their argument the night before. A heavily hormonal teenager was the last thing she needed at the moment.

She crossed to the kitchen and through a door into a small utility room. A pair of black shoes sat neatly beside the door. The stairs opposite led to Jane Lavery’s adjoining flat.

Helen took the stairs two at a time. At the top they opened into her mother’s front room. Black and white photos of the boys adorned the pale pink walls. The surface of the sideboard in the corner was barely visible through a collection of other framed photos, including a large one at the back of Helen in mortar board and gown. The pink and grey chintzy curtains behind the television were open, the grey two-seater sofa untouched and a vase of tired-looking yellow roses sat on the coffee table. Two white panelled doors led off the lounge - one led to the bathroom, the other the bedroom. The bedroom door was ajar.

“Mum?” Helen halted. No response. The air in the room was calm.

As Helen approached the bedroom she saw the curtains were only half drawn, allowing the soft evening moonlight to penetrate the room. Helen’s mother lay on the near side of the bed, eyes closed, hands tucked beneath her chin. She looked peaceful. Helen drew nearer, bent down. Finally, she witnessed the gentle rise and fall of her chest and breathed an instant short sigh of relief.

Her mother had always been a strong and capable woman. It was easy to forget that she was a pensioner rapidly approaching seventy. Only at times like this, when her hair that was usually secured in a neat bun, lay straggled over her shoulders, her face was gaunt and ghostlike and the veins in her hands seemed to protrude more than usual, did Helen remember just how vulnerable she was. And how old…

Helen squatted beside the empty bucket at the side of the bed and stroked her mother’s hair gently. Jane Lavery’s eyelids flickered, then opened. She managed a weak smile, but didn’t move.

“How are you feeling?” Helen asked.

“A bit better.” She blinked wearily. “I think I just need to rest.”

“Can I get you anything?”

Her mother shook her head once and blinked again.

“Okay, call me if you need anything.” Helen pointed to Jane’s mobile on her bedside table. “I’ll just be downstairs.”

Helen was almost at the door when she heard her mother’s raspy words, “Robert has a sleepover.”

She turned back. “He’ll live.”

Jane Lavery moved to lift her head. “He’ll be disappointed.”

It was just like her mother to be more concerned about the social diary of her grandson than her own health. “Mum, relax. Do you think you’ll be okay for ten minutes?”

Jane smiled gratefully and followed up with a short nod.

“Then I’ll take him. We can’t have him being upset, can we?” But the sarcasm was lost on her mother, who’d closed her eyes and sunk back into oblivion.

***

Nate slowed as the lights turned to red. Switching to neutral, he glanced across to the passenger side, stretching out a hand to stroke the leather seat as if it were a hooker’s thigh. He had loved Chilli’s old BMW X5, but this Mercedes SLK 55 AMG was something else. 0-60 in less than five seconds, a specially designed exhaust making the engine growl, the sleek white, sports finish, the surround sound system… He fisted his hands and banged his knuckles together.

A car horn sounded behind him. The lights had changed. He flared his nostrils, raising his middle finger out of the open window before powering away. The spike of anger was replaced by a crooked smile as he sped up the road, passing the turn on the left that led home. He might as well take the beast for a run tonight.

Nate was buzzing. He’d been watching the doors for a couple of hours this evening before being called to the office. Chilli invited him in and introduced him to a tall, dark-haired detective. But he’d seen the face before. This was no police visit. The man eyed him warily as Chilli called Nate his ‘Chief of Security’. Nate had nodded, but remained silent. Chilli waved his black book at the man threateningly. Nate had seen that book before.

“What sort of man would I be if I let this one go?” Chilli said. The man had swallowed, but said nothing. “I want the girl,” Chilli added through gritted teeth.

“Can’t you spare this one?” the man said, barely managing to keep the desperation out of his voice. It was pathetic.

Chilli gave a hard stare, shook his head vehemently and brandished the book again. “The code doesn’t work like that. If I go down, you come with me. Get. Me. The. Girl.”

The silence that followed was broken when Chilli calmly asked Nate to take the car home. He would join him later. This was the very first time he had trusted his pride and joy to Nate, alone.

‘Chief of Security’… Nate felt a rush. He’d never had a title before. He’d always just been ‘Nate’ or ‘my nephew’. Chilli promoted him, just like that, no discussion. But that was Chilli - a man of few words.

Nate raised the volume and bobbed his head to Eminem’s ‘Almost Famous’. He could feel the blood coursing through every vein in his body. The time was coming to step up. Chilli had no kids of his own and didn’t bother much with the rest of the family. Soon
he
would be attending the meetings. They would be asking
his
opinion. And they would hang on his every word. He puffed out his chest. He was THE MAN…

As Nate approached the edge of Hampton, the roads grew quieter and the stench of cow dung filled his nostrils. Eyes fixed on the road he pressed his foot to the floor, cornering the bends. He felt like the cars in his video games whizzing around the track, trying to make the best time. The faint purr of the engine was still audible beneath the heavy sound of rap.

Even when its lights started flashing, Nate didn’t notice the car on his tail. It wasn’t until the sirens howled that it caught his attention.

Nate ground his teeth as his eyes flashed across the dashboard. He was over eighty in a fifty zone. They’d take great pleasure in doing him for speeding, a young lad in his uncle’s posh car.

His mind raced through his options. Chilli didn’t court the attention of cops, in fact he did everything possible to keep them out of his hair. He’d be angry. But there was another reason he couldn’t pull over. They’d search him, and the car, and he couldn’t allow that to happen.

He floored the accelerator. The purr of the engine became urgent as the cold country air rushed into the car. He glimpsed his rear-view, the police car was battling to keep up. They’d know by now who the car belonged to. He would have to think up something good to get out of this one.

His eyes flicked back to the road just in time to see the bend. His reaction was visceral; he turned the wheel without jerking. It rounded the corner quickly. The back end swerved to take it. Years of gaming paid off. He saw the sign for the next bend and slowed to keep control. Another shot in his rear view. The car behind him was losing speed.

Another bend, sharper than expected. He overcompensated, the rear end fishtailed, but kept on course. He couldn’t see the police car. He’d lost them. He was just congratulating himself, when the next bend came out of nowhere, followed by another sharp one. He slammed the brakes. Dust rose as the tyres scraped the asphalt sounding like a flock of screeching gulls, the force so massive they lost contact with the ground. The car tumbled, his body walloped the side. He felt a suffocating sensation. The world swirled around him as he lost all orientation. The vehicle teetered for a few moments, before resting on its side.

He was aware of people moving around, somebody trying to get into the car, a body in the distance. He heard his uncle’s voice calling him urgently.

He wanted to respond, to explain, to apologise. The suffocating airbag was starting to deflate. He saw a face at the open window. But it wasn’t Chilli. An agonising pain seared vertically through his chest, up into his throat, choking him. He opened his mouth to speak, but coughed words were drowned by spluttering blood. Then darkness descended.

Chapter
Twenty-Eight

Back home, Helen checked on the sleeping patient, replenished the glass of water at her bedside and withdrew to the kitchen. A growl from her stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten. Lacking the energy to cook, she opened a tin of baked beans and placed some bread under the grill. As she moved around the kitchen she became aware of the silence around her. Her mother was indisposed, Jo out, Robert on a sleepover and Matthew at camp. For the first time in years, the house adopted a quiet stillness akin to an empty old church. It was disconcerting.

Her mind skimmed over Dean’s ‘family crisis’ as she sat at the table and ate. “You know teenagers,” he had said. Although Helen had never met his daughter, Lucy, she knew that she was about the same age as Matthew. And over the past twelve months Matthew had flexed his muscles. Only a few months ago he’d been suspended from school for smoking cannabis, arrived home from a friend’s party in a drunken stupor. Yes, she could definitely relate to teenage problems. She wondered if girls were more of a worry than boys. Was that who he’d been arguing with in the cafe the other night? Was it the reason for all those unanswered messages in the pub? But why ignore them? It didn’t make sense.

Her phone buzzed twice and she clicked to read the message. It was from Dean.
Call me.
The very idea that they both thought of each other at the same time made her stomach roll. What if his family crisis wasn’t really a teenage daughter problem? What if it was with his wife? She slouched back in her chair. For a brief moment she’d wondered whether the old feelings were returning, whether this time they might have a chance of a future. The reality check made her curse out loud. First he double-crossed her at work. Now this. She had no time for mind games.

She fleetingly thought about calling Eva, then changed her mind. She wasn’t expecting contact before the morning and Helen didn’t wish to alarm her. Anyway, if there was a problem, Eva would ring.

Pemberton had asked her who had allocated Dean to the case. The comment confused her. During her meeting with Jenkins, when she was removed from the case, he had told her the order had come from above. She thought back to her conversation with Dean. He had told her the assistant chief appointed him. But surely Dean came under regional funding. No wonder Sawford was annoyed. Her assistant chief didn’t have jurisdiction to appoint Dean’s team to clear up Naomi’s case. Was he throwing his weight around to save Hampton’s budget? But the victory would be claimed by MOCT. Surely Sawford would be pleased by this? It would certainly add weight to his securing funding for his team for another year.

Something didn’t sit right. The fork scraped across the plate as Helen gathered up the last few beans. She glanced at the clock. It was after ten. Against her better judgement, Helen grabbed her phone and worked the keys quickly before she had time to change her mind.

Sawford answered on the third ring, “Helen?”

“My sergeant said you wanted to speak to me about Operation Aspen?”

“Yes. Just a few loose ends. We can meet in the morning.”

The very idea that Sawford had already planned to travel down from Nottingham on a Sunday to discuss a solved homicide case rang alarm bells with Helen. “Of course,” she said warily. “There’s another development I would like to share with you now though.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve traced Eva Carradine.”

“You have?”

“Yes.” Helen swallowed her pride and shared a brief update of the afternoon’s events.

“That is interesting,” Sawford said when she was done. “Certainly explains a few discrepancies.”

Helen felt her stomach leap. “Discrepancies?” She fought to keep her voice even.

“Yes,” Sawford’s voice was equally cagey. “Were you on scene when Jules Paton’s body was discovered?”

The question threw Helen for a moment. “No. DI Fitzpatrick’s team were first on scene. I was searching Eva Carradine’s house and thought it imprudent to attend.”

“Of course.”

The phone went silent. It was only for a split second, yet long enough to allow a seed of doubt to germinate in Helen’s mind.