What You Left Behind (16 page)

“Where was it found?” she asked.

Burnley again referred to a photograph of the marked-up scene on his BlackBerry. He held it out. Yellow marker 3 had toppled over where the head lay after impact, right beside the brown metal of the rail track.

“Where do you think the body was actually hit?”

“Seven,” Burnley replied, switching to another picture. He zoomed in.

“Show me outside,” Lorraine said.

Burnley wrenched up a mouthful of phlegm and left the tent. She followed him to where one of the forensics team was crouching down, snapping shut a metal case. He pulled back his hood.

“The head was about here, wasn’t it, Neil?” Burnley asked.

Lorraine noticed a patch of blood on the granite chippings, how it had stained the metal track in a plum-colored spill.

“Just there,” the forensics officer replied, pointing, before going off to the tent farther down the line.

“What do you think caused the facial trauma?” Lorraine asked Burnley.

His shoulders bounced up and down. His laugh was low and ended with a cough. “He was hit by a fucking night train to London Marylebone.”

Lorraine walked a few paces away, up to the steep bank that led back into the woods. “Rather a quick clear-up, isn’t it?” she said, casting a glance toward the tent and the officers packing away.

Burnley looked at his watch. “Indeed,” he said proudly. “Well done, lads.”

One of the forensics team pulled back their hood, revealing a blond ponytail.

“And ladies,” he added. “We’ve already begun allowing the freight
through. Another twenty minutes and they can reopen fully. Do you know the costs involved in closing a line for more than—”

“There were cuts and bruises, Detective, with distinct dribbles of blood running vertically on the face—not conducive to the position in which the head came to rest.” Lorraine pulled herself up the overgrown bank, casting her eyes over the ground away to the left as she did so. “I presume you’ll be highlighting these initial findings to the pathologist and coroner?” she called down.

Burnley clumsily followed her up the bank, an incredulous expression masking the effort it took him to climb up.

“Stick to my path,” she ordered. She pointed at the grass and bracken. “Someone’s recently scrambled down there.” She indicated an area of flattened undergrowth. It wasn’t the mapped-out path they or the other officers had taken.

“Bugger me,” Burnley said nastily. “Could it have been our Lenny Jackman on his way to kill himself?” He was out of breath by the time he reached the top and stood beside Lorraine.

“So who made those tracks coming back up again then?” she asked, pointing to the clear direction of the disturbed vegetation with a sweep of her hand.

Without waiting for an answer, she walked on toward a hut she’d spotted a hundred feet or so away from the top of the bank. It was old and dilapidated and looked like the sort of place where kids got up to no good. She gave the flattened undergrowth she was following a wide berth, checking that Burnley, who was lagging behind, didn’t walk through it either.

“I didn’t bring you here to help,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

Lorraine was staring at a faint flattening of the woodland floor. “Shame,” she replied. “Because I’m going to.” Nearby, the ends of several twigs on a low thorny bush had been snapped. The exposed wood was fresh and green. She spotted fibers caught on one of them. “For starters, you might want to get one of your team to harvest that and get it analyzed.”

Next she went over to an area closer to the hut. It was clear that the ground had recently seen a scuffle. Freshly stirred leaf mold showed dark and damp beneath the drier surface covering where the rain hadn’t penetrated the thick canopy above. Several areas had been gouged and disturbed more deeply, revealing the rich earth of the forest floor.

Lorraine bent down to look carefully at a rock on the ground. There were several in a cluster, as if there’d once been a fire lit there, but one was dislodged and separated from the half-buried circle. It was fist-sized and, while mostly dark gray in color, the underside showed dark reddish-brown stains when she flipped it over with a stick.

“Likewise this rock,” she said, straightening up.

She stared around the woody clearing, then focused her attention back on Burnley, who was blowing a column of smoke up into the branches as if he’d made his point by simply bringing her here.

Lorraine rested her hands on her hips. Pitiful note or not, she didn’t believe for one moment that this was a straightforward suicide.

14

Lorraine called out to Jo as she crossed the Parade in the town center. Burnley had dropped her off on the way back to the Justice Center, offering a scathing departing comment about nuisance evidence and never seeing her again. She waved at her sister, finally catching her attention.

“Sorry to abandon you,” she said, putting a hand on Jo’s shoulder.

“You never could keep home and work separate,” Jo said, holding up a couple of shopping bags. “Anyway, as you can see, I spent the afternoon wisely.” She grinned.

“Jo …” Lorraine linked her arm with her sister’s as they walked. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

She felt giddy suddenly, perhaps from the glare of the sun, which had broken through the clouds again, but mostly because of where
she’d just been. It often hit later, once the personal details of the deceased married up with the images burned on her mind.

“Sounds important,” Jo said, stopping outside Boots.

The pavements steamed around them and the air smelled sweet and musty as they stepped out of the way of shoppers. Lorraine wasn’t sure how to tell her so she just said it, plain and simple, keeping the details to a minimum.

Jo paled and stood still for a moment, stunned. Then the frown came, the flush on her cheeks. She blinked several times, and Lorraine could almost see the rush of thoughts sweep through her mind.

“Does anyone else know?” Jo asked. Her voice was brittle.

“Only the police and the people held up on the trains,” Lorraine said.

She gave Jo a little hug.

“I should tell Sonia before she hears it from someone else. She’ll go to pieces if she finds out from the local news.”

“Are
you
OK?”

“I think so. Just …” She hesitated, brushing her hair from her eyes. “Just tell me it’s not all kicking off again.”

Lorraine took Jo’s hand and squeezed it. There was nothing she could say, no way to make what had happened better.

“S
INCE
S
IMON DIED
, she’s tried to make everything perfect, to please everyone, as if she’s atoning for something or trying to put up a great façade. I’ve dropped hints but she shuts me out,” Jo explained.

They were walking along the main road through Radcote, although it hardly warranted the description. Only two cars came past during the five minutes it took to get to the Manor. They’d already dropped Freddie and Stella back at Jo’s place.

“That must be very hard for Lana and her dad,” Lorraine said.

“They tolerate a lot, believe me. Sonia’s very protective of Lana and she leans on Tony for everything.”

“It’s understandable though, after losing a son like that.”

“I only hope Lana gets the exam grades she needs or her life will be over.”

“Lana’s life will be over?” Lorraine said. Grace had a friend who was obsessed with results too.

Jo was shaking her head. “No, I meant Sonia’s life, actually.”

They turned down the drive of the Manor, discussing how they would break the news.

“Are you saying Lenny might have been murdered then?” Jo asked when Lorraine mentioned Burnley’s unwillingness to investigate properly.

“That’s not what I’m saying. But with any death we always begin by assuming the worst. Start with murder, then work down.” Lorraine couldn’t be sure that Burnley believed the same.

“I’m just so worried, you know, with Freddie being down all the time.”

Lorraine drew her sister to a halt. “Look, Jo, let’s be realistic. These two homeless lads are entirely different from Freddie and the group of youngsters who killed themselves eighteen months ago.”

“But—”

“I know he’s miserable about something but he’s not homeless and he’s not desperate. Nothing bad is going to happen to him. He has far too much sense to copy Dean or Lenny.” Lorraine looked Jo in the eye, praying she was right. “OK?”

A
S THEY APPROACHED
the house, Jo told Lorraine how the Gothic-style manor had been bought by the Hawkeswell family a decade ago, and how they were still in the process of renovating it. Twisted chimney stacks rose into the sky, with symmetrical bay windows
to either side of an arched and ornate porch that shouted out grandeur: over the years, since Lorraine had first seen it, the house had been transformed from a relatively humble farmhouse into an imposing home. At the back, the cobbled yard, the small multipaned windows, and the proximity of the stables gave clues to its working provenance.

They stepped aside as a car came speeding into the yard.

“Let’s keep it calm and brief,” Lorraine said quietly as Sonia got out of the car.

Tony unlocked the back door of the house and a couple of Labradors burst into the yard, running straight up to Lorraine, tails thumping against her legs, noses trailing across her trousers.

“Jo, what a lovely surprise,” Sonia said. “Come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Lorraine glanced at Jo and gave a little nod.

“Perfect. We’re parched. Our trip to Kenilworth Castle got rained out.”

The kitchen was cool and smelled vaguely of overripe fruit and a day beset by damp and humidity. Sonia went to open the windows.

“Son, I’m afraid there’s been a bit of bad news,” Jo began.

Lorraine watched Sonia’s expression, which transformed into a tight grimace.

“What?”

“I wanted to tell you myself because I know how it’s going to make you feel.”

Jo took Sonia’s hands in her own. Lorraine busied herself filling the kettle.

“What is it, Jo?”

“I’m afraid there’s been another suicide.” Jo paused. “I’m really sorry, but it was another boy from New Hope.”

“Oh my God,
no
.” Sonia’s shoulders started to shake and she began to sob.

“I’m so sorry, Sonia.” Jo wrapped her up in a hug.

Lorraine plucked a tissue from a box and handed it over. “I’m really sorry too, Sonia,” she said. “It must be very upsetting for you.”

“Are they certain it was a suicide?” Tony had come in from the yard with the dogs weaving round his legs. He’d overheard what had been said and had gone over to his wife. His voice and presence seemed to soothe her: she left Jo’s embrace and went to him.

“I can’t release too many details at present,” Lorraine said. “The local police are dealing with it. I was …” She hesitated. “I was visiting them about another matter when I learned the news from an old colleague. Of course, every case gets treated as suspicious, but I can tell you that a suicide note was found at the scene.”

Sonia was nodding, sniffing, blowing her nose. “How did it happen?”