Absent Light (15 page)

Most of the service passed her by. She felt as if she were floating above it, looking down on them all, watching as if from afar, much as her mother had lived her life, she supposed. The most harrowing bit was watching her mother's coffin being lowered into the ground. Her father almost buckled. Bracing themselves, she and Aunt Lily propped him up. As the priest gave a dirge-like incantation, Helen experienced an inexplicable wave of anger. For what, she wasn't sure. Trying to shake it off, she looked up and, in the sea of faces, saw a fair-haired man wearing a pair of large wraparound sunglasses. His skin was the colour of raw pork fat, his mouth set as if his teeth were clenched together. He was standing slightly apart, hands folded in front of him. Who was he, she thought curiously? There was something about his stance that spoke of authority. He looked like he was a cop or a spook. She lowered her gaze.

Afterwards, she talked to as many people as she could. The condolences ran along predictable lines: her mother was a fine woman, greatly missed, a sad and sudden loss. All were too polite to say that she was an alcoholic with few real friends.

Rather bizarrely, Aunt Lily insisted on taking photographs.

“It's not a wedding reception,” Helen hissed humorously in her aunt's ear.

“But no less momentous,” Aunt Lily insisted. “You'll be glad of it afterwards.”

Will I, Helen thought? Do I really want to see myself looking so miserable, my father so traumatised?

While Aunt Lily went back to Keepers with Helen's father, Helen stayed until the last of the mourners left, and the staff cleared away the buffet and dead glasses. She felt generally pleased, if that was the right expression, with how things had gone. There had been a good turnout, including one or two unexpected faces. She briefly wondered again about the man at the graveside. Whoever he was, she thought, he left without introducing himself.

CHAPTER TEN

H
ELEN WENT BACK TO
work. She managed to persuade Aunt Lily to stay on at Keepers for a few more days. Aunt Lily and her dad had always been quite close. More selfishly, she also wanted space for herself.

“You sure you don't mind?”

“Not in the least,” Aunt Lily beamed. “I'm going to teach your dad to cook.”

Good luck to you, Helen thought. She'd never seen her dad do anything more culinary than make a cup of tea.

“Aunt Lily,” Helen began. “Did you notice a guy wearing sunglasses at the funeral, a stocky chap, of medium height and build?”

“Uh-huh, I think I know the one.”

“Who is he?”

Aunt Lily shrugged. “No idea. I presumed you knew who he was.”

“No. It's odd, don't you think?”

“Strangely enough, anyone can attend funerals.”

“Really,” Helen said in amazement.

“Some people make a hobby of it.”

They must be nuts, Helen thought.

Helen pulled into a local primary school where she was booked to take some photographs. The headaches had returned. She wasn't sleeping. When she did, she dreamt of water, dark and deep, thick like clotted blood, and most mornings she awoke with a sinking feeling, sensing that something terrible had happened but not quite sure what. As she passed through the twilight zone between sleep and consciousness, the feeling became more pronounced, thoughts took shape until with growing clarity she remembered that her mother was dead. There was regret in her grief, anger in her despair. She guessed some clever-dick shrink would tell her that it was normal in the circumstances, a form of repressed guilt for not having the kind of relationship she'd longed for, for not feeling loved, or for not loving her mother enough.

The school was in a smart part of Solihull. It smelt of cabbage and hamsters but the kids were well behaved. She was halfway through the session when something strange happened. Two brothers were having their photograph taken together. They sat nice and still, happy smiles in place, the camera lined up, everything ready. She bent down to focus and instead of the boys' faces she saw the puffed, bloated putrefying faces of the dead. She leapt back as if someone had thrown scalding water over her.

“You all right?” a teacher asked. “You've gone quite pale.”

“Sorry,” she gasped, knuckling her forehead with both hands to stop the chatter in her brain. “Felt a bit faint,” she mumbled. “Could I have some water, please?”

While the teacher disappeared, the boys, fidgeting with boredom, cupped their hands together, staring at her, whispering in each other's ears. Something in their eyes reminded her of before.

She drank the water in one draught, swallowed down two painkillers to nobble the headache, pulled herself together, finished the session. Stratton called her as she was packing up.

“Not a good moment.” She didn't want to talk to him feeling this shaky, this delusional.

“Where are you?”

“A primary school.”

“My idea of hell.”

“Can I call you back?”

“Promise?”

“Give me an hour or so, about lunch-time.”

She drove back, trying to work out in her mind what had happened. It was a bit late in the day to be suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome, she thought, even if she believed in all that psychological hocus-pocus. Best to blank it out, then and put it down to a one-off aberration, a stress-overload.

By the time she got back to the studio, she felt more clear-headed. Jewel was scoffing a packet of crisps and reading a magazine. On Helen's approach, she hastily bundled both away.

“Any messages?” Helen asked.

“Bloke called Stratton rang.”

“Anyone else?”

“Nah.”

“I'm just popping over the road to pick up a pint of milk. Do you want anything, another packet of crisps, perhaps?” Helen gave a cheeky grin.

“I'm all right, thanks,” Jewel mumbled, looking guilty.

She darted over the road to a nearby row of grotty-looking shops consisting of fast-food outlets, a cut-price booze emporium, newsagents, and an anything for a quid shop. The air smelt of petrol and curry. There was litter blowing about the street and graffiti scrawled across a boarded-up doorway. The place was noisy with traffic, and the sounds of a city working at full-throttle. About to walk inside the newsagent, she froze. A crowd of schoolchildren was surging towards her. Behind them a family of Sikhs. Sandwiched in the middle, was a hat partially obscuring a face. She peered again. Could be wrong, she thought, heart hammering in her chest. Was this another vision, or was this real? She looked again. The hair colour was different, the clothes scruffy, as if she'd been sleeping rough but…

The woman abruptly crossed over the main road, dodging a stream of cars. Helen measured the distance with her eyes, opened her mouth to call out her name, yet what name should she give, she thought, all mixed up? The milk forgotten, and with no regard for her safety, she made to cross the busy main road but was driven back by a surge of heavy traffic as the lights changed. All she could do was stand and watch helplessly as the woman she knew as Freya Stephens vanished from view.

“It's me,” she said, agitated, her hand trembling as she held the phone.

“Hello me,” Stratton said, a smile in his voice.

“I've seen her.”

“Who?”

“The woman.”

“Which woman?”

“Stephens, or whoever she is.”

“What?”

“I walked over the road to pick up some milk and she was there, walking down the road towards me.”

“You're sure?”

“Her hair was different. She wasn't wearing make-up and looked pretty dishevelled, but yes.”

“Be right over.”

Stratton strode into the building, flint-eyed, flashing his warrant card. Unaware of the nature of the relationship, Jewel gave Helen a go-getting thumbs-up as she led him through to the coach-house. They stood in the kitchen. Helen wasn't quite sure how to react: lover or victim?

“How've you been?” he asked solicitously.

“All right,” she said, fingering the collar of her shirt.

“I've been thinking of you.” His dark eyes flitted from her to the wall. He looked out of his depth, she thought and briefly wondered whether he regretted sleeping with her. “About Freya,” he said, moving on. “You say she looked different.”

“Totally.”

“Then how come you're sure it's her?”

She smiled, narrowed her eyes in surprise. “Joe, my livelihood revolves around observation. It's what I do.”

“Yes, but…”

“I
know
it was her. I saw her this afternoon, the real deal. Freya Stephens wasn't simply an impostor by name. She's created a whole new personality for herself. It was done quite deliberately. She was the hook, don't you see?”

Stratton pulled up a chair and sat down. “Look, Helen, you've had a tough time lately. It's bound to obscure your judgement.”

“My mother's death hasn't turned me into a moron.” Her voice sounded icy but she couldn't help herself.

“Of course it hasn't.”

“And I'm not seeing things.” Yes, I am, she thought, suddenly fearful, but this was different, this was…

“I'm just saying you're under a lot of pressure.”

“No.” She slammed her hand so hard down on the table it hurt. They both looked at each other in shock.

Stratton was the first to break the silence. “Don't push me away, Helen.”

“Then believe me,” she pleaded, deeply regretting her outburst.

“All right,” he said slowly. “If she's the hook, as you say, why would she risk blowing her cover by turning up in enemy territory?”

She sat down opposite him, took a deep, calming breath. “Because she has no choice. This must be where she lives.”

Another extended silence.

“Maybe we're looking at this all wrong,” he said, scratching his head. “We need to think more laterally. We're assuming you're the target.”

“If being half-drowned and mown down by an unknown van-driver doesn't make me a target, what does?”

“But you survived.”

“I got lucky.”

“Could be more complex than that.”

She stared at him, her wits sharpening. “Because I was meant to survive?”

“Yeah.”

“All right, then who
is
the target?”

He scratched his head again. “I don't know.”

A blind alley, she thought, drumming her fingers on the table.

Stratton looked thoughtful. She could tell from the look in his eye that he was going to press her to report everything and make a full statement. She felt like a witness who, for fear of reprisals, refuses to give evidence. “You managed to turn anything up?” she asked him.

“I wondered whether any associates of Jacks might have got it in for you,” Stratton said, “or maybe someone he pallied up with inside. You know what it's like, they all swap tales of derring-do.”

“And?”

“I've only skimmed the surface.”

It was the old story. He needed more manpower, more resources, more time.

His eyes met hers. She felt herself melt and smiled at him. He was doing everything he could but he was just one guy on his own and she wasn't making it any easier for him. She never seemed to make it easy. “Sorry,” she said, reaching over and linking her hand through his. He leant over and kissed her.

“You're bloody hard work, Helen Powers,” he said, an amused smile on his face. “Now, I'd better be going before they send someone out to track
me
down. I'll call you later,” he said firmly, kissing her once more.

Employing a little lateral thinking of her own, Helen discovered that finding Robyn Roscoe's address was easier than she'd imagined. She simply tapped into the electoral roll website, typed in Roscoe's name, tried several areas of the more salubrious parts of Birmingham and, after the third attempt, struck gold.

It was already dusk by the time she negotiated her way down the narrow private drive that led to
Reynards
. Brick-built, with the kind of square proportions seen in Georgian properties, it looked both expensive and stylish. It also looked empty, Helen thought, noticing too late the dead-end ahead. Abandoning the car, she grabbed her camera and got out to walk the short distance back to the house and take a better look.

Spiked gold-tipped railings and massive wrought-iron gates sealed
Reynards
off from the rest of the world. There were no gardens laid out in the front. A silver-coloured Z8 and a black Range Rover stood like sentries on the brick-paved herringbone-styled drive. Everything about the place seemed to shriek
Keep Out
.

On her approach, Helen heard the familiar click of sensors. Immediately, security-lights flooded the drive, revealing a security alarm high up on one wall. As far as she could tell, there were no cameras. Just in case, she rolled the neck of her sweater up to obscure her face.

Taking out a telephoto lens, she attached it to the camera and fixed one eye to the viewfinder. The house was a showcase for the gallery. Numerous works of art, including several large bronze busts and display cases, as well as the more traditional paintings and sketches filled the living room. At the far end, she glimpsed an alcove lined with walls of books, hinting at a library. Art tomes, she guessed.

The other side of the house appeared to be more lived in. Apart from the large antique rocking horse in the window, there was the usual stuff: television, comfy sofa and chairs, coffee table, plants and magazines. She counted six large windows on the top storey, two chimney stacks either end.

But it didn't tell her anything, she thought, climbing half way up the neighbouring bank to see if she could catch a glimpse of anything more compelling. By straining to her left, she could just make out a room that seemed totally incongruous with the design and style of the rest of the house. With its stainless steel cupboards and work-surfaces, it appeared to have more in common with a morgue than a kitchen. At any moment, she half-expected a body to pop out from one of the steel drawers.

That's when she heard the throaty sound of a fast car.

Jumping onto solid ground and stepping back into the shadows, she hunkered down and watched the slow approach of a dark Porsche Boxster, saw the gates electronically swing back, observed the car drive through and come to a halt. A slight-looking man in his mid to late thirties climbed out, walked up to the front door and slipped a key in the lock, letting himself in as if he owned the place. It wasn't Adam, of that she was certain. Neither was it anyone she recognised, she thought, making a mental note of the car's registration.

Unimaginably cold, she watched and waited, anxiously working out if she could reverse her car up the drive in the dark without drawing attention to herself. And what if she met Robyn Roscoe coming from the other direction?

At last the curtains closed and she made her move. In spite of creeping like a cat, every twig and dried leaf seemed to snap and crackle in the silence, echoing her escape.

Back in the car, she started the engine, opened the driver window and, without switching on the lights, reversed at a painfully slow pace up the drive, and eventually backed out onto the open road.

* * *

When Stratton called shortly after her return, she told him where she'd been. He wasn't impressed. “You're a bloody loose cannon. What's it going to take before you realise that the Roscoes are history?”

It was one question she couldn't answer. Then he asked another. “What's Robyn's motive?”

“Well, I…”

“And before you say revenge, from what I've heard, she wasn't too averse at playing Adam at his own game.”

Oh God, she thought in dismay, so there was some truth in what Robyn said.