The Truth Will Out (26 page)

“Interesting… Helen, who took you off the case?” Sawford eventually asked.

His words threw her off balance.

“Jenkins advised me that Dean had offered to do the file for the coroner, as the two cases are linked. Part of the assistance with our gun crime figures.”

“Jenkins. Are you sure?”

“I believe the order came from the assistant chief constable. He wanted my team to concentrate on the cold cases.”

“I see.”

“Pardon?”

Sawford ignored her. “Who was the pathologist on scene for the suicide?”

“Gooding, I believe.”

“Have you seen the report?”

Helen’s thoughts raced. She couldn’t recall anything suspicious. If Jules’ death had been murder, there would be signs of this detailed in Gooding’s report. “Only briefly. It was passed to DI Fitzpatrick’s team.”

“Right. I’ll have a word with the pathologist in the morning.”

“Good idea,” she replied.

“Right. Thanks for phoning me, Helen. Let’s pick this up in the morning. We’ll meet up in your office at, say nine o’clock? It sounds like we need to iron out a few things.”

The line went dead. Helen chucked her phone on the table and scratched the back of her neck irritably. The call left her exhausted, yet her curiosity was piqued. Although thoughts of the tenacious Sawford as an ally made her physically cringe, it was heartening that another senior officer was looking at the case through her eyes. But why were his answers so circumspect? Was he going to suggest she took the case back from MOCT? That didn’t make sense. Why not keep the case, gain a result? Or was he trying to punt it out, now that it wasn’t all it seemed?

The clock on the wall chimed. Ten thirty. Helen raised her eyes to it and rested on the photo underneath of her two boys in a canoe, taken during their holiday in Scotland the previous year. They were laughing. A splash of water hid the scenery behind them. Suddenly the house felt too large and she yearned for the regular background hum of Robert with the TV, Matthew texting on his mobile, her mother sitting reading at the kitchen table.

Helen finished the last drops of tea and rubbed her forehead as a wave of nausea hit her so suddenly, that it took her by surprise. She closed her eyes, laying her head down on the table as a deep sleep quickly engulfed her.

***

Chilli Franks sat as still as a statue, dark eyes fixated in space. The empty house mirrored the hole in his hollow soul.

A car door slammed in the street beyond. Through the slice of light bestowed by the street lamp outside he could see the stained patch of carpet Nate had cleaned earlier. He swallowed the lump in his throat and clamped his teeth together to fight the tears brimming in his eyes.

Nate’s face filled his mind. The young boy that had been so delighted to get his own room, so grateful of his uncle’s basic care. Many an evening he had listened to him playing on his Xbox; they’d shared Indian takeaways, worked at the club together. A simple soul. One that had become close to his own. One that he could trust. The only one he could trust. All that he held precious, gone in the course of one evening.

His chest heated, sending a fireball rushing through his veins. Chilli stood. He flexed his fists then grabbed an empty mug and, with all his might, threw it against the far wall. He didn’t stop to watch the smash. He kicked the coffee table repeatedly until it upturned and one of the legs broke off. He ran his hand along the mantle. Ashtrays, empty beer bottles, used coffee mugs all crashed to the floor.

Chilli didn’t feel the cut on his wrist. Blood dripped to the floor. Sweat coursed down his back as he kicked and punched, casting aside everything in his way. Photographs scattered across the floor as the sideboard fell forward.

The sight of a single photo halted him. He swayed, clutched the side of the sideboard, panting. His eyes fell on Nate in the boxing ring, pressing his gloved hands together, a rare smile on his face. At that moment the fireball burst into Chilli’s lungs. He held his head back, took a deep breath and let out a bloodcurdling roar.

Chapter
Twenty-Nine

Helen sensed a light touch on her shoulder. A pain shot through her neck as she jerked round to see the face of her mother.

“Oh, it’s you.”

Jane Lavery smiled pleasantly. She had secured her grey hair in a knot at the nape of her neck and wore a white dressing gown with grey mule slippers, but her face was still pale and drawn.

Helen’s eyes moved around the room. She’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table. Dried bean juice marked the empty plate next to her. The morning light seeped in through the French doors. “What time is it?” she asked as she massaged her neck.

“Almost seven. Have you been here all night?”

Helen nodded. “You feeling better?”

“A little,” she replied. “Just wish somebody would tell my stomach.”

“Still sore?”

Jane Lavery nodded.

“Fancy a coffee?”

“No, thank you. Can’t quite face it yet. Think I’ll just take some paracetamol.” Helen watched her mother cross to the corner cupboard in the kitchen and retrieve a box of tablets from the shelf.

“I didn’t hear Jo come in,” Helen said, puzzled.

“Oh no, dear. Sorry, forgot to say that she phoned and was sleeping at her friends. They were hitting the town, apparently.”

Helen raised her eyebrows. “Poor Hampton.”

Jane Lavery smiled. “Can you manage Robert this morning? I think I might go back to bed. Give this stuff time to work its magic.”

Helen’s eyes felt dry and heavy. “Sure. Jack’s parents are taking them both to football. I’ll drop out from work and bring Robert back here afterwards. Can I get you anything else?”

Jane Lavery clutched her stomach. “No, thank you. I’m not feeling so good again.”

Helen watched her mother retreat to her flat and rolled her shoulders. She wasn’t looking forward to this morning’s meeting one bit.

***

Eva replaced the handset and edged out of bed. At the window, she lowered her eyes to the car park where a man in casual slacks and sweater was wheeling a suitcase across the tarmac. He stopped beside a black Toyota. The boot lifted automatically. She watched him lower the case into the boot, close it and pull a phone out of his pocket.

Eva had just spoken with Detective Chief Inspector Lavery, who’d asked her whether she’d had a comfortable night. She’d spent the night listening to the wind whispering in the nearby trees, watching shadows of car headlights passing on the road outside spin around the room and jumping at every distant sound. But she didn’t share this with the detective.

Helen had gone on to explain that room service had been ordered and she was asked to check outside the door to see if it was there, while the call was still connected. Eva looked across at the food on the table: a bowl of cornflakes, a jug of milk, a covered plate that she suspected contained a cooked breakfast, something wrapped in a serviette next to a tiny selection of jam pots and a sachet of butter, alongside a teapot, cup and saucer. She didn’t feel like touching any of it, although she knew she had to eat something.

The detective hadn’t sounded concerned. She told Eva to stay in the room, that they were having a meeting this morning and she would ring her again before lunchtime. She assured her of her safety. But Eva didn’t feel very safe.

The man in the car park lifted the phone to his ear and spoke into it. He leant against the side of his car, his free arm raised as he ran his fingers through waves of dark hair. Watching him from behind the curtain, she suddenly felt as though she was peering into another world. A world where she no longer played a part.

At this moment Eva felt like a spectator, watching the lives of others, while her own life was placed on hold.

***

Helen arrived at work just after eight thirty. As she entered the car park somebody pricked the rainclouds that had been hovering in the sky and they burst their contents over Hampton. Helen pulled her coat up over her head, battling to carry her briefcase and bag, as she exited the car and ran to the entrance.

Pemberton was standing just inside the door as she passed through, depositing a pack of Embassy cigarettes back into his pocket. “Morning Sean,” she said. “Everything alright?”

He looked solemn. “Sawford phoned a couple of minutes ago. He’s stuck in traffic.”

“Do we know how long he’s going to be?”

“No idea. A lorry crossed the central reservation on the M1.” A loud drumming noise caused him to hesitate and gaze out into the car park. The rain was coming down hard now. “Could be a while.”

“What about Inspector Fitzpatrick?”

“No sign yet.”

“Great!” Frustration chipped her tone.

“Big news from last night is that Chilli Franks’ nephew was killed in a police chase,” Pemberton said, changing the subject as they walked together towards the stairs.

Helen paused and whipped around to face him. “Nate?”

Pemberton nodded.

A picture of Nate entered her head: the dirty blond number two hair cut, the acne riddled face, the dark eyes that always looked frighteningly intense. He couldn’t have been much more than eighteen. For the first time in her life she felt a marginal amount of pity for Chilli Franks.

***

Helen was pleased to see the rain had cleared as she turned into the small car park beside Weston Park school. It was packed as friends, parents and supporters had turned out to watch the football game. She parked on the grass at the far end, desperately hoping the ground wasn’t too waterlogged. She didn’t relish the prospect of being hauled out of the mud. As she left the car and headed towards the pitch she noticed how quiet it was. She checked her watch. Just after ten. The boys should have just started the second half. Normally there would be calls from the pitch, cheers from the crowd, words of encouragement from coaches, the shrill sound of the referee’s whistle.

She trudged around the back of the building to the field. It was empty. That explains the lack of noise, she thought. Usually the game didn’t finish until ten thirty. She was just wondering if she had the wrong location when she entered the clubhouse at the far end of the pitch and was met with the muddy, sweaty aroma of a football team.

Helen glanced up at the notice board. Pictures of lads beamed back at her: a formal shot of them all in smart club kit, the coach at their side, then numerous other photos of the team on events, in training, partying, paintballing. The boys varied in age from around ten to fifteen. Robert loved football, playing in Hampton’s junior league every Sunday morning during season. Suddenly, she was struck by the difference between her boys. Matthew showed no interest in rugby or football, preferring athletics, water sports and climbing whereas for Robert it had always been football. He’d pushed a ball around the lounge before he could walk.

Helen felt a pang in her heart. Her boys were growing up fast. It seemed like only a few years ago that she was persuading them to take a shower, change their underwear and clean their teeth. Now they both spent hours in the bathroom. Razors sat next to toothbrushes in the holder, a couple of bottles of hair gel and aftershave were added to the shower gel, shampoo and conditioner on the shelf.

A distant noise made her turn towards the windowed doors where she could see a group of boys marching towards the clubhouse. She felt a mild nudge on her arm and turned to see Jack, Robert’s friend, beaming at her.

“Hello Mrs Lavery.”

She smiled back at him. “Helen,” she corrected.

He gave her a cheeky smile. Jack was a stocky lad, with clumps of brown hair that stuck out in all directions and ruddy cheeks. “You missed a great game.”

“I was hoping to catch the end.”

“Oh, we started at eight today. Special fixture. Did you not get the email?”

Helen formed her lips into a smile. “Must have missed that. What a shame.”

“We won the Stars Cup!” He beamed at her, exposing a wide gap between his front teeth.

“Well, I guess congratulations are in order then. Well done!”

“Three - two. Robert scored the winning goal.”

“That’s great!” Helen became distracted by a group of boys exiting the changing room with bags slung over their shoulders, chatting noisily. She looked back at Jack. “Where is Robert?” she asked.

“He got a lift back with your friend. Dave, Den… No, Dean, that’s it, isn’t it? The tall guy. Jack placed his hand above his head to indicate height. “Good of him to come and watch the second half. He cheered all the way through.”

“Dean was here?” Helen felt a rush of blood to her head.

“Yeah. Anyway, coach took us all for a milkshake to celebrate and Robert got a lift back with him.”

Jack turned towards the door. “There’s my dad. Gotta go. See you soon, Mrs Lavery and tell Robert I’ll text him!” His final words were muffled as he disappeared into the changing room. She became aware that Jack’s dad was standing next to her and turned, politely thanking him for Robert’s sleepover last night, before turning out into the air.

As she made her way to the car, confusion consumed Helen. What was Dean doing here?

She was just sliding into the driver’s seat when a torch shone inside her head, reminding her of their conversation on Wednesday evening. He’d expressed an interest in going to the match. But she’d been against it. Anger flared inside her. Reaching out to her through Robert was a very low ball. A very low ball indeed.

***

Helen rested her head on the steering wheel. That certainly explained Dean’s absence from the station this morning. But where was he now? And more to the point, where was Robert? She tried their mobiles. Both switched to voicemail and she left urgent messages to call her immediately.

As she raised her head she noticed that the rain had started falling again, soft droplets dancing on the windscreen, blurring her vision. She called Pemberton who confirmed that Dean hadn’t returned to the station. Then, chewing the side of her lip, she called home.

“Hello?”

The sound of Jo’s voice threw her off balance and she paused momentarily. “Oh, hi. I wasn’t expecting to get you. Thought you’d still be recovering from your night out.”