What You Left Behind (32 page)

I grab him by the shoulders. “It’s OK, Freddie. I will look after you.” I pluck a tissue from the box just like Sonia does for me.

He snatches it. “Fucking adults, right?” He blows his nose and settles back down at the table, doing something on the computer that I don’t understand.

I make a cup of tea. Sonia says it makes everything better.

When I put the mugs on the table, Freddie’s face has gone really pale. He slowly shuts the laptop lid. “Fucking
fucking
hell,” he says in a whisper. Then his cheeks burn red and he starts to rummage through all my drawings on the table. He’s getting them all creased.

“Don’t do that,” I tell him, but he doesn’t listen.

“Where are they?” he says. “The ones I saw earlier. Show me.” His voice is louder now and he keeps saying
show me
,
show me
over and over until he’s yelling it really loud.

“Show you what?” I ask, but it’s as if he doesn’t hear me and my drawings are going on the floor now and that’s making me sad and cross. “Stop it!” I say, and grab his arm. I can feel him shaking, right down to the bones deep inside his body.

He yanks out of my grip and shoves his phone and the computer into his backpack. “Open the fucking door, you freak!” he screams. His whole body is shaking, even his voice.

“Oh no,” I say politely. I set my hands on his shoulders. “You have to stay here with me now. You’re my friend.”

29

“Jo’s sleeping it off, so I’m going to see Bill. He said he was free this afternoon.”

Bill was an old family friend as well as an expert in document and digital forensics.

“I’ll come with you, Ray. I want to see what he thinks. And I’ve canceled meetings so I can stay on to help.”

“Thanks, Adam,” Lorraine replied.

Central Forensic Services was based in modern offices on the edge of the Warwick University campus. Friday-afternoon traffic clogged the approach on the A45 and caused Lorraine to rummage in her handbag and fish out ten Silk Cut cigarettes she wasn’t even certain she had.

“I’ll lean out,” she said, pre-empting Adam’s disapproval and lighting up.

They’d been stuck at a set of lights, waiting to turn left, for what seemed like an age. Finally, they were cruising down the long, leafy length of Kenilworth Road.

“Pull in there,” Lorraine said ten minutes later as they approached the two-story building.

She and Adam got out of the car and went inside. The receptionist immediately showed them through to Bill’s office.

“It has been too long,” Bill said in a loud, overstated voice, “
way
too long.” Beaming and red-faced, he grabbed Adam’s hand, pulled him close, and slapped him on the back with the other. Then he dragged Lorraine in for a kiss and a tight hug. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

The last time they’d seen him was when he and his wife had invited them round for dinner at their home in Kenilworth.

“It’s been about six months, I think,” Lorraine said, removing the clear plastic folder from a brown envelope.

They sat down on two black leather sofas set at right angles to each other at one end of Bill’s spacious office. An intern brought in a tray of tea and a tin of biscuits. Lorraine noticed Bill had put on a bit of weight. His faded jeans strained around his girth and his green checked shirt was slightly untucked. Bill never wore a suit.

“How’s Sandy?” Adam asked.

“She’s very well, thanks. Off on one of her charity dos soon. South America this time, I believe. A whole bunch of them cycling up some mountain.” Bill was shaking his head fondly. Sandy was always going on some adventure or another, raising money for good causes.

A network of tiny lines had deepened around his eyes at the mention of his wife, Lorraine noticed.

He clapped his hands together. “So, what have you got for me?”

Bill’s enthusiasm for his work was infectious; it was his drug. He’d dealt with thousands of cases for the police and other government agencies over the years, as well as working with solicitors both on a criminal and civil basis. What Bill didn’t know about handwriting comparison or document analysis wasn’t worth knowing. He’d appeared in court numerous times as an expert witness, including cases for Lorraine and Adam.

“It’s a sad one, I’m afraid,” Lorraine began. She knew Bill had a couple of lads at university, one at Warwick studying law, the other in Edinburgh reading English. “It’s a suicide note, homeless lad, nineteen, killed himself by crashing a stolen motorbike into a tree. Massive head injuries. The note was found in a locker where he kept his belongings at a homeless shelter. He was a regular there.”

Bill took the plastic wallet and looked at the photocopied note. He preferred to work from original documents, but Lorraine had made certain it was a clean copy. He shook his head slowly as he read. “Sad indeed.” He placed it on the table. “Easier to just take an overdose, surely?” His head retracted in disbelief. “It’s an elaborate way for a homeless lad to go.”

Lorraine made a similar gesture back and shrugged. “Dean Watts was registered at the Job Center in Wellesbury. He’d done a couple of courses—how to apply for jobs, that kind of thing. They were able to provide me with a few samples of his handwriting.”

Lorraine slipped another folder from the envelope and handed it over. Bill curled in his lips as he read Dean’s letter in which he tried to convince a builder to give him a job as a laborer.

“Who was the SIO on this?” Bill was almost smiling.

“Detective Inspector Greg Burnley,” Lorraine replied.

“Never heard of him,” Bill said, and picked up both samples, holding them side by side. “But I can see why you wanted me to take a look.”

“S
O THE NOTE
is a fake,” Lorraine said half an hour later, back in the car. “Which means Lana might be telling the truth.”

She hadn’t been able to resist a second cigarette and was thankful Adam wasn’t being high and mighty about it. It was just that the blend of work and home—something she’d never been comfortable with—had set her off. She was stressed, and she wanted her nephew back.

“Then who wrote it?” Adam said.

They were on their way to the Justice Center to see Burnley, show him the handwriting comparison, and give him Bill’s off-the-record but adamant conclusion that Dean Watts had not written his own suicide note.
Not even close
were Bill’s final words. Although, he’d added, someone had made a decent attempt to copy his style. “I’d say they had access to something the deceased had previously written,” he said. “But it’s all in the tiny details, and they’re dissimilar in every way.” Lorraine had suspected as much but wanted professional confirmation.

Burnley came out of his meeting especially when they arrived. Lorraine glanced up and thought he looked both inflamed and joyous as he approached them down the corridor, his short legs making hard work of the distance. She was leaning against a wall, finishing off a reply to a text from Grace.

“So, your nephew’s bike,” Burnley began with a smug grin.

“Freddie’s bicycle is significant in the ‘suicide,’ is it?” Lorraine put her phone in her jeans pocket and folded her arms. Between them, she and Adam were blocking the corridor.

“Happy to share opinions, as ever, although I’m still waiting for forensics on that one,” he said. “You seem to be making yourselves right at home.
Mi casa
and all that.”

He stepped forward, clearly expecting them to move.

“Good, then you won’t mind if I share a little titbit with you.” Lorraine wafted the envelope in his face. “Dean Watts’ suicide note was not written by him. An expert says it’s a fake.”

Burnley’s shoulders dropped an inch or two and his expression instantly changed—eyebrows raised, a pulled-back chin emphasizing the stubbly flesh that hung beneath.

He ushered them through to his office, where Lorraine continued. “We can take this through the proper channels, though that’s such a drag and I’m more interested in finding my nephew rather than clearing up after your ineptitude. Again. Your full cooperation in all areas, therefore”—she lingered here—“would really be appreciated.”

Burnley was back in his chair. He spread his hands out on his desk.

“And you might want to take a look at this,” Lorraine said, pulling a CD in a slipcase from her bag and dropping it on his desk. “It’s CCTV footage of the stolen motorbike leaving the pub in Radcote. I thought you might be interested to know that there were two people on the bike. Just like Gil said.”

T
WENTY MINUTES LATER
Lorraine and Adam were alone, sifting through the case files from the six suicides that had occurred in the Wellesbury area. Burnley had swept them off into a private room. Even though many of the officers and staff were already leaving for the weekend, the department was always open.

“I still think it’s distraction therapy for you,” Adam said, pulling Lorraine close. “By the way, they’re continuing to ping Freddie’s phone periodically and there’s been nothing so far.” He’d taken a call from their West Midlands office while Lorraine was waiting for the files to be gathered. “And no movement on his bank account, either, cash machines or debit cards. It’s eighteen pounds twenty-four in credit with no overdraft protection, so he’s not going very far on that.”

Lorraine nodded. “I know you think I’m mad.” She looked up at
the ceiling, a file open between her hands. “If it wasn’t Burnley … if it was anyone else …”

“I know,” Adam replied. “You do what you need to do.”

Lorraine was grateful he understood. More often than not it was she who’d humor him when he veered off on tangents in an investigation, latched onto seemingly unrelated threads, trying to tie them up, to make sense of glimpses and morsels of information that others would have overlooked. It was what made them both good detectives.

“Dean’s death was not a clear-cut suicide, I’m convinced of that. Even if Lana wasn’t involved and she’s covering up for someone, I’m certain there’s some truth to Gil’s claims.”

“Maybe she is telling the truth,” Adam said.

Lorraine rubbed her eyes and nodded. “But you know what else has really got to me? That message between Freddie and Lana, the one on his computer joking about being half brother and sister.” She sipped on a bottle of water, remembering how Jo had overreacted to her questions.

Between them they scanned through the paperwork, which, Lorraine had to admit, was complete and thorough in most cases. Either Burnley had learned a few lessons or he had an exemplary team behind him. She suspected the latter. It was only when they came to Simon Hawkeswell’s file that her stomach tightened.

“Oh God, he looked just like his dad.”

She stared, almost mesmerized, at the dead boy’s face—livid and bluey-purple, a snapshot of his last moments. The hemorrhaging was spotted about on his cheeks and eyelids like a disease. She plucked out a few of the scene photographs and looked at them, before sliding them across to Adam. Then she pulled one back again, studied it closely.

“Where’s the pathologist’s report?”

Adam drew it from the file and flipped through it. Lorraine lined up a few photographs of Simon. There were dozens of the scene.