The Truth Will Out (27 page)

“Didn’t drink.”

Helen didn’t miss the pithiness in her tone. “Oh.”

“I’m with child, remember?”

“I didn’t mean that. It’s just that you didn’t come home last night.”

“Couldn’t get a lift until this morning.”

Helen was starting to feel frustrated. The last thing she needed right now was an argument with a grown adult over their social life. “Is Robert with you?”

“I haven’t seen him. I thought you were picking him up?”

Ignoring the question, Helen ploughed on, “Is my mum up?”

“She came down briefly for some water. Still looks like a ghost… ” The line crackled. “Helen, what’s up? You don’t sound yourself.”

“Nothing. Really. Just Robert’s not here. Must have met a friend, forgotten I was picking him up.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yes, I’m sure he is. Do me a favour though, will you?”

“Sure.”

“Call me if he gets back before I see him.”

Helen rang off. Where are they? Her brain offered a practical explanation. They were at Hayes cafe, Robert tucking into a chocolate ice cream sundae, reliving the final winning goal of the match. But why the mystery? She didn’t like this. She didn’t like this at all.

Chapter
Thirty

Helen drove up and down the streets of Hampton’s town centre, desperately searching for Robert’s red hoody, the navy sports bag slung over his shoulder. Finally she reached the high street and parked outside Hayes cafe. She jumped out of the car and ran to the entrance, but even before she was through the door, her hopes had trickled down the nearest drain. Through the glass fronted coffee house she could see perfectly well that neither Robert nor Dean were there.

Unrelenting, she pushed open the door and rushed up to the bar. Apart from a young couple huddled together on one of the sofas by the window, the place was empty. The waitress looked up and gave her a familiar smile as she approached. “Latte?”

“No, sorry. You haven’t had my son in this morning, have you? A young lad, thirteen, may be in a sports kit.” Her words were running together, mingling with her quick breaths.

“No.” The waitress looked alarmed, shaking her head. “We’ve been dead all morning. Is everything okay?”

Helen raised a hand. “My son. I think he’s gone off with a friend.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her card. “Please give me a call if you do see him?”

As soon as Helen was out of the door she whirled around. Where to next? Dean’s bed and breakfast flashed into her mind. She headed down the road in a half run, flinging herself around the corner. The hotel sign was still lit up, even though it was now mid-morning. Helen rushed through the entrance. A rich, musty smell welcomed her into the hallway she’d seen two days earlier. She grabbed the small gold bell and rang it hard.

It took several minutes and two more rings before she heard footsteps and saw feet emerging from the stairs. As the body came into view, Helen witnessed a dumpy woman in her early fifties with hair thinning at the front. She had on a loose navy skirt and a cream jumper that was bobbled across the chest.

“What’s going on?” The woman’s voice croaked as she spoke. A strong smell of nicotine followed her.

Helen flashed her identity card. “I need to see Mr Fitzpatrick,” she said.

“I was just doing the rooms on the top floor,” the woman answered. “I haven’t seen Mr Fitzpatrick this morning. He didn’t come down for breakfast.”

“And you are?”

“Vera Little, proprietor.”

“May I take a look in his room?”

The woman looked surprised momentarily, but didn’t argue. She pulled a book off the table beside her. “Now which room is he in… ”

Helen ignored her, and headed upstairs to room four. She tried the handle, but it was locked. She started banging her fist on the door as Vera’s heavy footsteps grew louder, followed by short, raspy breaths.

“Hey! Wait a minute,” she said, as she unlocked the door.

It opened to reveal a room veiled in darkness. Helen blinked, allowing her vision to adjust. The curtains were closed and it smelt dirty, as if the bedclothes needed a good wash. It had seemed larger to Helen on her last visit, more spacious, tidy, glamorous. Or maybe that was the drink talking.

The empty room injected a sick feeling into the pit of her stomach. Helen turned, pausing briefly to lock eyes with Vera and press a business card into her hand, before she ran down the stairs.

Outside the guest house, Helen’s mind reeled. Where else? She dug into the depths of her memory. A Chinese restaurant in Roxten pounced into her mind. They were open all day Sunday with a buffet. Dean frequented it regularly when he stayed in Hampton. He’d suggested taking her there for a late breakfast once, but the thought of eating Chinese in the morning had made her stomach turn. But Robert wasn’t so discerning. And he loved Chinese.

She raced back to her car and headed out of the city centre. In less than ten minutes she was turning into the small car park at the front of the bank of shops, of which the Chinese restaurant, ‘Wok Up’, was on the end. She parked hastily and jumped out of the car. The windows of the restaurant were steamed up, obscuring her view, but she could see that there were several bodies milling around inside.

Two middle aged men, plates loaded with food, turned from the buffet bar as she burst through the door. The rush of thick heat beat her cheeks. She scanned the tables. One at the far end was surrounded by a group of dishevelled teenagers who looked like they hadn’t slept since the day before. A man sat alone at a small table beside the window. Two waitresses stood behind the counter and watched as a waiter approached her. But she didn’t stop to speak to him, merely turned and left the shop.

The sick feeling in her stomach started to churn her insides. She put her hand up against the brick wall to steady herself. Where were they and why hadn’t they answered her messages?

At that moment, Helen saw a hint of colour disappear around the side of the building. It looked familiar. She followed it. Nothing. She walked around to the back of the restaurant, past a bank of dustbins overflowing with cartons, paper and food scraps. A clicking noise caught her attention. She whizzed around. Another movement. Again Helen followed it, back onto the side street, past a block of two storey flats. It led to a dead end, a pedestrian alley the only outlet into the rest of the estate. She continued down the alley, into another street lined with houses on either side. There it was again in the distance, just for a split second before it turned off. She tried to call out, but her lungs sucked the last breaths from her mouth.

Helen ran down the road, her feet pounding the pavement, and turned at the next corner, unsure of where she was heading. She passed a teenager dressed in a black hoody and jeans, texting on his phone. He looked up briefly, but didn’t meet her gaze. Helen headed through another alley and whizzed around. She was in the heart of the rabbit warren now. She didn’t recognise her surroundings. The streets were bare. She reached into her pocket for her mobile. It was missing. It must have fallen out. She was desperately trying to recall when she last used it when she saw something out of the corner of her vision. He was on his mobile. She sped towards him. Almost as she reached him, he disappeared around a corner and up the side of a house.

She turned the corner. Helen heard a thump and felt a simultaneous sharp pain penetrate her skull just as the world turned black.

***

Pemberton was starting to feel edgy. He checked his watch again. It was now after one. Sawford had reached the station before twelve and called several times enquiring after Helen. He wanted to meet urgently. But where was the DCI? She said she’d be back by eleven.

She wasn’t answering her mobile. He’d left several messages. Dean hadn’t shown up either. The word around the station was that he was sorting out family problems, but nobody could reach him. Had they met up? But surely she would ring. It was out of character for her not to be available on the end of her phone.

He made his way out towards the car park and was just pulling the external door open when he heard Sawford’s monotone voice, “Sean, any news on the DCI?”

Pemberton cringed inwardly and stood for a split second to regain his composure before turning to face him. “Not yet. She’ll be back soon.”

“So you said, an hour ago.” Sawford stared up at him, a file tucked beneath his arm.

“She’s obviously been delayed.”

Pemberton had seen that look before, the scrutinizing look that examines your face and body language searching for the truth. He’d used it himself on many an occasion. But he remained silent, refusing to be drawn.

“Problem is, sergeant, this won’t wait. And, as she’s not answering her phone, we’ll have to start without her.”

Sawford turned on his feet and Pemberton reluctantly followed him into a meeting room. Sawford placed the file he’d been hugging on the small round table in the middle, sat back in his chair and folded his hands together.

Pemberton sat opposite him.

“I’d like to hear more about the DCI’s relationship with Dean Fitzpatrick,” Sawford said.

“I told you yesterday… ”

“I heard what you said, yesterday,” Sawford cut in. “But I want to know the truth. Are they involved?”

Pemberton stared at him in disbelief, careful not to narrow his eyes or react in any way. When he spoke, his voice was impassive. “In truth, I’ve no idea. They are old friends. That’s all I know.”

“Oh, come on, Sean. You work very closely with the DCI. She must talk about her home life, partners?”

Pemberton eyed him warily. “Not really. Occasionally she mentions her kids, her mother, but generally she’s quite private about her personal life.”

“It’s a coincidence that they have disappeared together, don’t you think? And my sources have been watching them. They’ve worked on this case together, tied up all the evidence.”

Pemberton stared at him, trying to work out exactly what he was implying. “Helen didn’t believe the case was solved,” he responded. “She thought there was more to it, worked hard to keep it. She pressed Jenkins because she didn’t feel the evidence tied up.”

“Did she? Are you sure? Or did she just say that to keep herself in the clear?”

Pemberton’s head was spinning. He’d worked closely with the DCI. She was passionate about making a difference, just like her father.

Sawford leaned forward, leafing through the folder. “I’ve spoken to Gooding,” he continued. “There was further bruising on Paton’s neck, inconsistent with the ligature we found. It’s possible he may have been killed first, and hung later to make it look like suicide.”

“That’s practically what Helen thought, yet there was nothing in his report.”

“No, because he was told to ignore it. He was told that the evidence against Paton was compelling and there was no need to pry further.”

“By who?”

“DCI Lavery. He still has the email in his inbox.”

“That doesn’t make sense. What about Eva Carradine? Helen worked hard to locate her, put her in a safe location.”

“To draw her in.” Sawford said, leaning forward. “Don’t you see? She’s bait. Eva is the smear on this case and without her it’ll get tied up nicely, the hype will die down.” A short silence ensued.

Pemberton tried to recall the events Helen had relayed from Eva. They were sketchy at best. But then, this wasn’t her case to investigate. And why would she call him if she was luring Eva into some kind of trap. A trap for whom? He tried to question Sawford on the wider picture, the motive, but Sawford wouldn’t reveal anymore. Pemberton chewed the inside of his mouth. The email he couldn’t explain…

“I’m sorry, I know you’ve worked closely with the DCI, but I think you’ve been used.”

For the first time in all his service Pemberton was starting to question his own judgement. His gut instinct refused to believe the allegations against the DCI. Yet a relationship between Helen and Dean muddied the waters. And the last call he’d received from her, was her looking for Dean. When she was supposed to be there.

“I think you’d better take it from the top, sergeant,” Sawford said sharply. “And don’t leave anything out.”

Chapter
Thirty-One

Helen stared at the mildew creeping up the walls around her and shivered. She shifted position on the concrete floor, curling her nose at the smell around her. Her left shoe was missing and there were grazes on her knees and ankles where they’d brushed the rough walls as she’d been carried here.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the semi-darkness, Helen followed the path of damp up the wall, resting on a small rectangular window at the top that had been painted black. The tiniest glint of daylight slid in through a gap at the side where the frame had corroded; the only light in this dank, empty cellar.

It was still daylight outside. She had no idea what time it was. Helen cast her mind back. It must have been around eleven when she had seen Dean and blacked out. She raised a hand and rubbed a lump on the back of her head that felt like a camel’s hump.

Did Dean do that? Why? Thoughts of his elusiveness over the past twenty-four hours snuck into her head. The phone calls, unanswered messages over the last few days. But then... He had family problems.

Flashbacks shot into her mind: Dean’s face in his office on the afternoon Paton’s body was discovered, his anger at The Angel Tavern.

Her hands turned clammy. Dean, a bent cop? No way. She would have known.

She wrenched the ideas from her mind, failing to comprehend the incomprehensible just as George Sawford’s presence slid into her brain. Formerly with PPSU. Formerly, or still? Him asking how she found Dean.

The urgency in Dean’s voice when she told him she’d located Eva Carradine sliced through her thoughts.

She raised a hand to her forehead. Dean’s problems weren’t his teenage daughter, weren’t his wife. He was involved with the very group Eva was running from.

And Dean was the last person to be seen with Robert.

Her throat constricted. Helen clutched her knees into her chest. She racked her brains. She’d left work to collect Robert, phoned home when he wasn’t there. Work would be expecting her back. Her mother would be expecting Robert. Surely somebody would come looking? But looking where? Where was she? Her mobile had disappeared. For a split second she hoped that it was left on - the police could locate her through it. Then her heart sunk. She remembered leaving the guest house, searching her pockets. It was missing. It could be in the guest house, in the coffee house, a gutter, anywhere.