Absent Light (9 page)

“Revenge.”

His eyes locked with hers.

“You're the only one I can trust, Joe.”

Stratton put his mug down on the table and gave her a straight look. “The fall-out from the Warren Jacks case is in the past. It's highly unlikely it has any bearing on what happened either last night or four days ago.”

“But possible.”

“Anything's possible,” he carped. “It's whether it's probable.”

“But surely it's the first place to start looking.”

He broke into a wide smile. “Exactly.”

She frowned. “I don't understand.”

“You've just answered your own question.”

“Because it's obvious, it's unlikely?”

“Helen, Jacks has no axe to grind with you.”

“I nailed him.”

“He nailed himself. All you did was collect the evidence.”

“And shout about it.”

He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “If he'd really wanted to have you taken care of, he'd have done it a long time ago, believe me.”

“From inside prison?”

Stratton nodded gravely.

“That's encouraging,” she said with a dry smile, “but I wasn't only thinking about Jacks.”

Stratton looked uncomfortable. “You mean Roscoe?”

She nodded.

“After he left the force,” Stratton said, “I gather he set up as some kind of security adviser.”

“Right,” she said, thinking what a waste.

“You knew of the likely consequences.” There was no accusation in Stratton's tone. It was more a simple statement of fact.

Yes she did, that's why she'd agonised over it, she wanted to say.

“However you dress it up, Helen, he was bent.”

Bent
, such an ugly word, she thought. “He wasn't on the take,” she pointed out fairly. “He didn't fit anyone up. He didn't profit from drugs busts or robberies. He didn't leak information to criminals. The operation had been cleared at the highest level…”

“But not the way he handled it,” Stratton countered uncompromisingly. “He got too close to Jacks. He overstepped the mark to protect his informant, for God's sake.”

She spread her hands. “He believed it to be in a noble cause.”

“His own,” Stratton said with a steely glare. “And everyone knows that noble-cause corruption is only the first step to financial or worse. If he was that bloody innocent, why did he resign instead of fighting his corner?”

“At least he didn't go on the grounds of ill-health,” she said: the classic get-out clause for dodgy officers.

“He went before he was pushed.”

She sighed. How could she defend the indefensible? And why the hell was she defending Adam Roscoe, in any case? He hadn't done her any favours.

Stratton glanced away. She was quick to pick up on it. “Is there something else?”

“Last I heard, he went out to Iraq.”

“Iraq?” she gasped.

“There's good money to be had – if you can stay alive.”

Maybe he doesn't care any more, she thought. Adam always was a risk-taker. He liked the buzz, the power it conferred. Contrary to what some had hinted at, he'd never displayed much interest in money. That wasn't what motivated him. “What about the others?”

“Apart from a couple of officers who left of their own accord, everyone directly connected to the case has kept their jobs. In some cases they've moved higher up the food-chain.”

“Glad to see putting my neck on the block made such a stunning difference.”

His eyes connected with hers. “It made the difference, all right.”

“Another enquiry, another report and, in the meantime, everyone's got smarter at covering their arses.” She said it smilingly in an attempt to disguise the spike in her voice.

“I mean you caused a cultural shift,” he parried.

She gave a deep sigh. “The police will never dispense with informers, registered or otherwise.”

“With good reason, Helen,” Stratton said with more than a hint of irritation. “Most police work is human intelligence gathering. Sure, technology and systems have a valid role, but nothing beats solid information. It's why informers play a routine part in lots of criminal investigations. They're a necessary evil. Without them, information dries up and crime increases, and they're a damn sight more useful on the street than banged up in prison but, believe me,” he added, “no one wants a repeat of the Jacks case.”

“In case the lawyers come down on you?”

“Unlike you to be so cynical.”

“Sorry,” she muttered, catching too late the humour in his eyes. Oh God, she thought, would there ever be a time when she could talk rationally about it without getting this exercised?

“We're better trained now,” Stratton said, “more informed about the inherent risks. Less experienced officers are more likely to listen to advice from superiors and less likely to make deals they can't possibly keep. There's been a real clampdown on backhanders and soft jail terms.”

I've heard it all before, she thought, sipping her coffee thoughtfully. She didn't say anything. Sometimes it was better to let an argument go, especially one with such high emotional stakes. “You ever hear from Elaine?”

“She works for West Mercia now. Seems happy enough. Not so much blood and guts,” he said, cracking a warm smile. She smiled back. “I'm not attempting to play this down, Helen,” he said, reaching over and touching her hand. “I'm just trying to help you see what's behind it.” His eyes were softer now. As she looked into them, she knew he was batting for her. She glanced down at his hand over hers. The skin felt warm and supple. But it shouldn't be there, she thought warily, abruptly pulling away. He seemed not to notice.

“I'm going to play Devil's Advocate with you,” he said brightly.

“Now
I'm
getting deja vu.”

“How do you know last night wasn't some prank by a lunatic drunk?”

“That's the sort of thing Harmon's sidekick, Wylie, would come out with,” she protested.

Stratton continued, undeterred. “People get pissed on New Year's Eve. They do all sorts of mad things.”

“Like this,” she said, standing up, rolling up her left trouser leg. “This is just the edited highlight. Believe me, it's a lot worse further up.”

Stratton's jaw slackened. “Christ, have you seen a doctor?”

“If you think I'm queuing up in casualty to see some quack who's been working round the clock for the past twenty-four hours, you have to be kidding,” she let out a laugh. Still less do I want to see a scenes of crime officer, she thought more sombrely, and have my photograph taken.

“All right,” Stratton said slowly, “show me where it happened.”

They went outside into the garden and walked up the path together to the back gate. Any sun had given way to a grey and grudging sky. It felt cold enough for snow. “It was rumoured you'd had some sort of breakdown,” Stratton said as he opened the gate.

She'd heard the same. In reality, she'd teetered on the brink. She'd felt as if she were suspended in time. How she thought she felt was not how she really was. And she'd been particularly affected, she remembered, by noise. Anything and everything made her jump. The world was a monstrous clamour, but nothing sounded as loud as the noises in her head. She would have liked to put Joe straight, but decided it was best left unsaid. “Whatever I felt then, I'm fine now,” she said with a brisk smile.

She let Stratton study the scene for himself. He walked up and down, crouching briefly by the rubber marks, examining the security light, which, according to him, had been tampered with.

“It was thought-out, perfectly timed. He could have killed me.”

“But he didn't,” Stratton said, as if thinking aloud. “He had the opportunity but he didn't take it. Why would he do that?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “To create fear?”

“Maybe he wants to punish you.”

“Which brings us neatly back to grudges,” she said, hoping to be spared the psychoanalysis.

They went back to the coach-house and she made more coffee.

“Can you think of anybody you might have offended, intentionally or otherwise?” Stratton asked.

“No one.”

“No rejected males, no broken hearts?” he said, flashing the type of admiring glance that made her feel vulnerable. Stratton was married, after all. She wasn't falling for that one again.

“Why has it got to be a man? It could be a woman.”

Stratton rejected the idea out of hand.

“Why not?” she said, with interest.

“Driving vans at people is a man thing.”

“Sounds sexist.”

Stratton laughed. “You always come out with stuff like that when you're losing an argument.”

“No I don't,” she said, playfully slapping his arm. “Actually, now you come to mention it, there
is
another woman in the picture.” She told him about Freya Stephens and showed him the contact sheets. Stratton examined them. There was no flex in his jaw, no quickening of his eyes. He put them down and studied her for a moment.

“You tried to contact her?”

“Her mobile was switched to a messaging service.”

“And she hasn't been in touch since?”

“No.”

“Sounds flaky.”

“I know.” It was one thing to suspect, another to have it confirmed.

“So what's your take on this woman?” His brown eyes fixed on hers in a way she found vaguely unsettling.

“That's a difficult one.” What could she say? She hardly knew the woman. “On the surface she seemed very charming. We got on well.”

“You liked her?”

“Yes. She was direct, irreverent, different, I guess.”

“Like you,” Stratton said with a spry smile.

You don't know me any more, she thought sadly. “There was nothing about her that triggered my alarm signals.”

“Until the mugging,” Stratton chipped in.

“Uh-huh.”

He looked at her with meditative eyes. “You think the meeting was a ruse?”

“Could have been,” she admitted.

Stratton looked thoughtful. “Got anywhere else to stay?”

“What's wrong with here?”

“You're on your own.”

She gave him a level look. “You think I'm in danger?”

“In anyone's book, last night was a serious incident, which is why I don't feel comfortable about you not reporting it.” He leant towards her. “I hear what you're saying, and, sadly, knowing how sensitive cops are about corruption, I agree with your general conclusion, but isn't it worth giving Harmon…”

“No,” she burst out. “I've just told you…”

“Okay, okay,” he said putting up a hand defensively. He watched her for a moment. “All right,” he said slowly. “I'll do some discreet digging.”

“Thanks, Joe,” she said, trying to contain the relief in her voice. “Is this going to cause a problem between you and Harmon?”

“Not at the moment,” Stratton said. “Depends what I unearth.”

“But you might need to share it with her?”

“I might,” he said neutrally. Except, Helen thought, the very rigid nature of police hierarchy meant that Stratton could always pull rank. Breakdowns in communication were not uncommon. He could play it however he chose. “Got an address for this Freya woman?”

“Her details are in the studio,” she said, getting stiffly to her feet.

“And I'd like her number,” he said. “Can I borrow these?” he asked, holding up the contact sheets.

“Sure.”

When she returned, he was still studying the proofs. “I've written down my mobile number for you,” he said, “easier than going through the switchboard.”

And easier to keep it quiet, she thought.

“You always shoot in black and white?”

She shook her head. “Most of my work's colour. Black and white is generally for the purists. They reckon you get more of an artistic effect. It allows the photographer to let his subject impress his or her personality on the picture, give it more of a visual impact. From a practical perspective, it's also cheaper to produce.”

“Why do you think Freya Stephens chose this particular medium?”

Good question, she thought. “With hindsight, I'd say she had a taste for drama. She wanted to create an impact.”

And she certainly did, Helen thought.

CHAPTER SIX

S
HE WAS DUE AT
her parents for lunch. A New Year's Day ritual, enshrined in family history, it was designed so that her mother could recover from one hangover before embarking on the next. Several of her parents' close friends joined them and Helen attended with whichever boyfriend she was dating at the time. For the past two years Martin had accompanied her. It felt strange, this time, to be alone.

With her left hip and leg so badly bruised, she wasn't entirely certain how she was going to drive. Changing the clutch would be painful but what bothered her most was her cover story. She really wanted to come clean but she couldn't afford to, because, aside from her mother, who was spooked out enough already, she feared her father's reaction. Her dad was a doer. He expected results. He was not good at delegation, especially when it came to his daughter's safety. If she told them the full story, he'd be on the phone to the Home Secretary. The situation called for verisimilitude. She could say that she was drunk – who wasn't on New Year's Eve – and had stumbled into the road where she'd been accidentally knocked off her feet by a passing motorist. However, the idea of being economical with the truth made her feel so sick she decided to say nothing at all.

It took her ages to get changed. A skirt or dress was definitely out. She decided upon a navy loose-fitting trouser suit, smart-casual, as her mother would say. Just before she left, she called the lab. Although closed until after the weekend, she intended to leave a message.

After two rings, the phone was answered.

“Carl?' Helen said in amazement. “What the hell are you doing there?”

“That's a fine greeting,” he gave a raucous laugh.

“Sorry, I'm just amazed you're open.”

“We're not. I happened to be in.”

“On New Year's Day?”

“You know how it is, can't keep away from the place.”

“Christmas that bad?” she laughed.

“You haven't met my wife's side of the family,” he joked, but in a way she suspected there was a grain of truth in it. “So what can I do for you?”

“You sent proof sheet references J6878/9.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Could I have another set, and can you print numbers eleven and twelve, fifteen and seventeen.”

“Size?”

“Eight by six should do it.”

“Any particular time frame?”

“Soon as you can.”

“Will do. And Happy New Year, Helen.”

“Same to you, Carl,” she said, cutting the call.

Fortunately, she found some Co-Codamol lurking in the back of the medicine chest, the only painkiller that seemed to ease her frequent headaches. The pills didn't knock you out, thank God, but they subdued the pain to a manageable level. She just hoped the tablets would hold out for the necessary length of time.

The drive was uneventful. Roads were quiet. People were few. While Christmas decorations were already being dismantled in some homes, the majority were still intact, just.

As she drove, she listened to Norah Jones singing
Come Away With Me
. With bitter poignancy, she was reminded of Martin. They were at his flat. He'd cooked a lovely supper. Norah Jones's dusky soulful voice was seeping out of the speakers. They were at that mellow stage in the evening when she knew they'd soon fall into bed.

“Marry me,” Martin said softly.

It was so unexpected she stupidly asked him to repeat what he said. He smiled, took her hand, kissed the inside of her wrist. “Marry me, Helen.”

She felt like a rabbit caught in headlights. Here was this lovely man offering to make her his wife. She really did care for him, loved him, maybe. Not like Adam, but still lots. So easy to say yes. So easy. “Martin, I…”

“It's all right,” he smiled. “I'm not rushing you. Take your time.”

“It's not that,” she swallowed. “I just don't think I'm the right…”

“Helen,” he spoke gently. “You're everything I've ever wanted. Let me love you.”

What he really meant, she thought, tracing his face with her fingers, was
let me save you
.

And, sadly, she knew he couldn't.

Judging from the glossy selection of vehicles outside Keepers, most guests had already arrived. She got out and crossed the drive, steeling herself to be social. The heavy oak door was already open and she stepped through a forcefield of dry heat and into the wide, open hall where Hilary and Vernon Rudge were divesting themselves of their coats. They greeted her with the smug warmth of the well-heeled.

“Lovely to see you,” Hilary said, crushing her in a hug that near enough made her cry out. Always tactile, Hilary Rudge was one of those women, Helen thought, who'd lose the power to communicate if they lost their hands.

“We hear you've been having a bit of a rough time of it,” Vernon said, a corpulent man with a deep laugh.

“I'm on the mend,” Helen assured him, taking their coats, escaping to the downstairs cloakroom, a perfect design of coat-hooks and potpourri, hand-wash and tissues, scent and soft towels. She caught sight of herself in the gilt-framed mirror. She looked tired – to be expected – but there was something else. Faint marionette lines had appeared at the corners of her mouth. Her skin seemed lifeless. She looked haunted. Fear slithered over her body. A fear of being found out.

As she made her entrance into the drawing room, people turned and looked at her, the steady burble of conversation briefly dipping before it cranked up again. A log fire was blazing in the fireplace, windows staunchly closed. With the under-floor heating at full belt, she found it difficult to breathe. Bowls of crisps and sweating peanuts were dotted around the room though nobody seemed that interested. Apart from the Rudges, there were roughly twenty others. All were smartly dressed, the men in ties and jackets, the women in Christmas reds and greens. The air smelt of perfume, after-shave and money. Heaps of it.

Her father was playing host, topping up his guests' glasses from a bottle of Krug. He immediately pushed a glass into Helen's hand and kissed her.

“All right?” he said, his brown eyes searching hers.

She nodded. It probably wasn't a good idea to drink on top of the strong painkillers but she took a sip. What the hell, she thought. “Where's Mum?”

“In the kitchen.”

“I'll go and see if she wants a hand.”

Her mother was putting the finishing touches to a whole poached salmon.

“Hi, there,” Helen said.

Her mother gave a start. “Oh, it's you.” She put a hand over her heart. “Sorry, these kind of gatherings make me nervy.” Always thin, she looked much thinner. Her skin was ashen. She looked, Helen thought, as if the lights were on but nobody was in. She couldn't tell if it was hangover or worry.

Her mother wiped her hands on her apron and forced a smile. “How's things?”

“All right,” Helen said, resting her rear against the Aga. “Partied at Jen's last night. The usual crowd.”

Her mother turned her attention to the fish again. Her fingers were trembling, Helen noticed. “Everything else all right?” her mother said. “No more problems?”

“Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Really?” her mother flashed an anxious look.

“Honest,” Helen said, skin creeping at the blatant lie.

Her mother's features melted into relief. She picked up her glass, a heavy-based tumbler of gin and tonic, and took a deep drink from it. As she went to put the glass down, it seemed to slip from her fingers, tumbling onto the tiled floor where it smashed into dozens of glittering pieces. She put both hands to her head, pressing the fingers hard to her temples, and let out a long, heartfelt wail.

Astonished by her mother's response, Helen moved swiftly towards her, cradling an arm around her shoulders. Her mother began to sob.

Christ, how many had she had, Helen wondered, the strong scent of juniper catching her nose? “Shush, shush,” Helen soothed, as if comforting a child. “It's only a drop of gin, and the glass won't break the bank.”

But her mother was gone. “I'm so sorry, Hels,” she gulped, “so very sorry. I didn't mean…” she broke off, crying again. Her shoulders heaved as if she had all the sorrows of the world on them.

“I know,” Helen said, gently rubbing her back. Her mother hadn't called her Hels since she was little. Must be the booze, she thought.

“You don't understand,” her mother said, with desperate eyes.

“I do,” Helen said simply. You're drunk, you're worried, you're unravelling. “Now go upstairs, splash your face with water. I'll clear up.”

Her mother stood mute for a moment as if trying to process a decision. “Yes,” she agreed at last, her voice little more than a whisper. “But the food.”

“No one's going to starve. Most of them look as if they could do with missing a few meals,” Helen laughed, forcing a weak smile from her mother.

“That's better,” Helen said, kissing her mother's wet cheek. “If you're not down in five, I'll come and get you.”

It took an age to find all the shards, even with the aid of the Hoover. Fortunately, everyone was too busy jawing and drinking to notice the blip in the proceedings. By the time Helen emerged, her mother had recovered her composure and joined the party. Helen watched her. She was laughing politely at a joke cracked by Vernon Rudge, but there was no sparkle in her eyes, no warmth.

Eventually, the room thinned out as people drifted through to the dining room where they queued in typically British fashion. Helen found herself bringing up the rear with the Mainwearings, her parents' nearest neighbours. They were extolling the virtues of gardening. Even though she had little interest, she tried to make the right noises.

“Our big project this year is a water feature,” Celia Mainwearing was saying. Small and dumpy, with weather-beaten features, she talked at speed.

“I've never been quite certain of the difference between a water feature and a pond,” Helen said, wondering too late if she'd put her foot in it.

“Oh, a feature's
much
more complex,” Dennis Mainwearing opined.

“More architectural,” Celia backed him up.

The table looked as though ravaged by locusts by the time she got there. The cold roast beef was decimated. There was one tiny piece of salmon. The salads were stripped of all the choicest ingredients, and the garlic bread was reduced to half a dozen dried-up end pieces. Only the puddings looked unsullied. Worst of all, there was nowhere to sit because everyone had bagged places and disappeared into their own little cliques. Amid so many people, she suddenly felt displaced. This was her home and she didn't really belong. Never had.

She stood on the periphery of a heated conversation about asylum seekers, and ate standing up, wondering when she could slope off without causing a stir. Already the tablets were beginning to wear off and she was dreading the drive home. She was just considering how to make her escape when her cell phone rang. She deposited her plate on the nearest side-table, walked out of the room and into the empty hall, and picked up the call. It was Stratton.

“We have a problem,” Stratton said. “Freya Stephens doesn't exist.”

She felt as if someone had thumped her in the throat.

“You were given a false name and address,” Stratton continued.

“I see.” She didn't really, but she couldn't think of anything else to say.

“Any idea why she'd conceal her identity?” Stratton asked.

“Not that I can think of.”

“You're absolutely certain she didn't give out anything about herself,” he pressed, “any clues to her personal circumstances?”

“Not really.”

She heard Stratton expel a sigh. “So what now?” she asked.

There was a lengthy pause. Poor Joe, she thought, it would be so much easier if he could share the information but, even if it were possible, how could she explain that she didn't want the torrent of questions, didn't want the drama, hated the idea of being in the spotlight again? She'd had enough of it last time.

“I'll try shaking a few trees for info.”

Sounds like we're back to informers again, she thought, her stomach giving a sickening lurch. Then she had another idea. “It's a bit of a long shot, but wouldn't Jacks have had contact sheets?” These were forms filled out by an informant's police handler.

“Yes, of course,” Stratton said apprehensively.

“Could you get hold of them?”

“Helen, I'm not sure…”

“They might contain something, a name or a clue, something we're missing.” It would also tell her about how Adam recorded the information, she thought but didn't say.

Stratton almost groaned. “Why do you still think Jacks is connected to the attack?”

“Just keeping my options open,” she said brightly.

There was a baffled silence.

“Please,” she said.

“I'll see what I can do,” he said, his tone long-suffering. “But I'm not making any promises,” he added in a reproving fashion, then softened a bit. “What are you up to?”

“I'm at my parents. New Year buffet.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It isn't, actually.”

“Least it keeps you out of trouble,” he laughed.

Helen drove back home in the late afternoon. The countryside looked exposed and bleak, houses and buildings, normally hidden by trees and undergrowth, laid bare: secret places revealed. The sky was a dark band of grey smudged with white, as if some unseen artist had taken a palette knife to it.

Freya, or whatever she was called, had lied to her. People who gave false identities were usually criminals trying to conceal a greater crime. It looked as if Freya had set her up, but was she in on the mugging? Was she in on last night? Helen wondered with a shiver.