An Unfamiliar Murder (6 page)

Suddenly, it felt as though somebody had flicked a light switch in her
brain - Cookie. He had an annoying habit of pushing the door closed whilst
inside her parents’ room, so that he could sleep on the warm patch where the
central heating pipes ran beneath the doorway. Her father replaced the carpet,
a few months previous, when the cat had found himself trapped there and tried
to claw his way out. Since then the door had been propped open by an old, heavy
paperweight. But there was no sign of the paperweight today and the door was
firmly closed. She reached for the handle and opened it softly. Cookie emerged,
wrapped himself around her ankles purring loudly and slunk away down the
stairs. She had just turned to go into her room next door when she heard the
whimper again.

Confounded, she stepped back and pushed the door open wider so that she
could see into the room. The curtains were still closed although it was around
midday, a peculiarity most uncharacteristic for Kathleen Cottrell. Anna
squinted to see in the limited light that seeped through the doorway, following
the gentle moans. Eventually she found the source. Curled up in a ball on the
bed, just like a cat, her head tucked into her hands, was her mother.

Kathleen Cottrell looked up at her with mascara blotched over her
wrinkled face, her expression one of complete desperation. Anna’s mouth fell
open like a fool as she stared at her, completely bewildered. Then instinct
took over and she crossed over to her mother, sat down on the bed and wrapped
her arms around her.

“Oh Anna. My little girl. What have I done?” Kathleen choked on her words
as her body slumped onto her daughter’s chest, her whines developing into sobs.
Anna was not sure how long they sat there, her cradling her mother’s limp body,
stroking her hair. Even as her mother’s breathing steadied and the tears dried
up, they didn’t speak. It was as if neither of them knew what to say.

Finally, Anna became aware of a distant car in the road outside. The
routine noise seemed to prompt Kathleen to sit up on the edge of the bed and
reach over to grab a square, black purse from her bedside table. Anna stared at
her mother as she fumbled with the metal clasp, finally clicking it open to
withdraw a Marlborough
and a silver box which bore the illegible, worn markings of an old engraving.
Expertly, she placed the cigarette to her lips, lit it and took a long, deep
drag.

This was her mother’s one vice and Anna, not a smoker herself, loved it.
As a child, she had thought it a glamorous habit, relishing the calming effect
it seemed to have on her mother’s mood. And, in spite of how much it had irritated
her husband, Kathleen had never been able to kick the habit, yielding to reduce
her usage to ten a day, to ‘calm her nerves’. These days she restricted her
indoors smoking to the conservatory. The very presence of her small black purse
in the bedroom was completely out of character.

Anna watched her in silence for a moment. Her mother had aged
considerably over the past 48 hours. Dark shadows appeared under her eyes, her
usually manicured hair sat limply on her head. A flicker of stray ash landed on
Kathleen’s trousers and she brushed it off instantly.

“Mum, are you alright?” Anna asked gently.

“Fine dear, thank you,” she replied, taking another deep drag from her
cigarette.

“What upset you so much?”

“Oh, nothing dear. It’s just me being silly.” She had heard this cold
dismissive tone in her mother’s voice before. This was the moment when she
would clam up, wouldn’t offer explanation. Anna wasn’t going to let her get
away with it. Not this time.

“What did you mean – ‘What have I done’?” she said, looking her straight
in the eye.

Her mother deliberately averted her gaze. “What?” she asked, shaking her
head, as if to remove any bad thoughts.

“You said, what have I done?” Anna repeated, stressing every syllable,
her eyes glued to Kathleen’s face.

“No I didn’t. You must be mistaken.” She rose quickly and stared at the
red, digital numbers on the clock on her bedside table. “Goodness, is that the
time?”

“Mum – I need to know.” Anna heard the desperation in her own voice.

Ignoring her daughter’s pleading she added, “I must get your father’s
lunch. Coming down?” And, without waiting for a reply, she headed out of the
room and down the stairs.

“I need to know!” Anna shouted after her in pure exasperation, as she sat
there staring despairingly at the carpet.

 
Anna gripped her head. Her mother
had always been self obsessed, a total hypochondriac. Every little stomach pain
had the propensity to be bowel cancer. Every headache could be the basis of a
tumor. In Kathleen Cottrell’s world the glass was always half empty. Was she
over reacting at the extraordinary events that had befallen her family over the
last few days? Or, was there something more to this? Anna felt there was.
Something strange was going on and she felt completely and utterly cut out of
the loop.

*
* *

A strong,
musty odor filled the air as Helen walked into Jim
McCafferty’s
home. It smelt like a mixture of stale cigarette smoke and an old, mildewed
cellar in desperate need of ventilation. She resisted the temptation to throw
open all the windows, instead glancing around at the one reception room which
the front door led into. It was a relatively modern house, less than ten years
old she estimated. The stairs led out of the lounge and there was a doorway on
the far wall leading into the kitchen.

Helen scratched the back of her neck. The pattern on the brown carpet was
no longer distinct, masked by bits of clothing, flakes of mud fallen from
boots, pieces of food and dust, that had littered it for so many years they had
now become part of it. The itch moved down her back and into her legs. Apart
from the two green, cigarette stained chairs, an old pine TV stand in the
corner and a pair of old, sun bleached curtains at the window, there was little
else in the room. Helen wasn’t surprised to see the empty spirit bottles and
beer cans that lined the chairs. The autopsy report she’d received that morning
highlighted a fatty, oversized liver, consistent with heavy drinking. She
shuddered, trying to shake off the now constant itches.

 
Something was bothering Helen and,
as she could hear her team moving around, searching the floor above her head,
she realized what it was – the mantle was empty apart from an old fashioned
clock that ticked loudly. There were no photos on the walls. The room was
devoid of those everyday objects we collect and treasure, those photos that
record our memories.

She walked through to the kitchen. The sink was full of several days’
washing up and an overfull ashtray sat on the work surface in between a jug
kettle and a pile of opened post. She flicked through the post, a mixture of
junk and bills, which felt strange through her rubber covered hands. She saw a
letter touting for house insurance, a bank statement, telephone bill, a letter
from the Department of Work and Pensions about income support. Then right at
the bottom of the pile she found it. A card in a grey envelope.

She pulled the card out. It had a drawing of a bottle of wine on the
front underneath the words ‘Happy Birthday’. She opened it and read the
inscription inside: “Happy Birthday Dad. I’ve found her, and when I come out
we’ll all meet up.” It was signed “
Rab
”. That was it.
Not ‘Love,
Rab
’ or, ‘Thinking of You,
Rab
’. Just “
Rab
”. She turned over
the envelope to examine the postmark. It read October 2010. She screwed up her
eyes to try and make out the obscured franking mark. There was no doubt it was
HM Prison – but the envelope was smeared and she was unable to make out which
prison.

*
* *

It was after
three o’clock when they finished searching the property and returned to the station.
DS Pemberton looked up as she walked back into the incident room. “Ma’am,” he
nodded, “anything of any use?”

“Rubbish.” Before she was able to speak, she heard DI Townsend’s
dismissive voice behind and turned around to glower at him. He noticed her
expression, shrugged his shoulders and strolled past her silently.

“The guys have bagged up a few bits and pieces.” She walked into her
office and he followed her as she opened her briefcase. “It was all very
impersonal really,” she added, “no photographs, no ornaments.”

“Lived on his own,” Pemberton said thoughtfully.

“Without a doubt,” she replied, then, changing the subject, “Anything
from house to house?”

“Not yet. Seems he pretty much kept himself to himself. Might get a bit
more tomorrow, when the local shops open.”

“What about in

“Nothing. Nobody saw anything. In fact, they all seem to have been out
during last Friday afternoon.”

She sighed. “I found this amongst his post.” She pulled out the birthday
card and envelope, lay open and sealed in a plastic wallet, and handed it over.
The detective turned it over in his hands.

“
Rab
, Scottish for Robert,” he said. He looked
at the postmark on the envelope. “This is quite recent. We’ll check back
through the prison records.”

“Do you think we can trace which prison?”

“Quite possibly,” he replied.

“Good. Anything back on forensics?”

He looked up at her. “Nothing yet.”

Helen frowned. “Keep chasing, will you?” She looked past him, through the
open blinds, into the incident room. There was no doubt that they were working,
moving around, but with an edge of weariness. It was as if she were watching a
film in slow motion.

Pemberton followed her gaze. “They’re all knackered.”

 
“Come on.” She walked out into the
main room and rested her right hand on one hip, lifting her jacket slightly.

“Can I have your attention please?” The muffled chatter quieted. “Thank
you for all your hard work this weekend. We have made some real progress,” she
tried to sound upbeat, positive, although she knew they would be fully aware
that the leads were quickly drying up. She pulled back her cuff and looked at
her watch purposely. It was three thirty. “Let’s call it a day. Go home to your
families. We’ll start back again tomorrow morning, eight o’clock sharp.” A roar
went up around the office and she smiled to herself as she turned and walked
back into her own office to collect her things. Nothing more could be done
today.

*
* *

The first person Helen saw when she arrived home just after four o’clock was
Robert. He was sitting in the lounge, playing on his Xbox and his face lit up
with a smile when she walked in.

“Hi Mum!” She bent down to hug him and kissed his forehead,
affectionately pushing his unruly, brown curls out of his eyes.

“What are you playing?”

He looked back at the screen. “Lord of the Rings. Are you finished for
the day or do you have to go back to work?”

“Done for today, darling. I’m going to cook us a roast dinner.”

“Wicked!” Robert had always been small for his years and the sofa
juddered only slightly as he jumped with excitement. “Can you help me with my
homework? Its algebra and I don’t get it.” He looked up at her, his dark eyes
shining.

“Of course, darling. We’ll do it together after tea.” He focused back on
the screen now and she realized that she had lost him to his game. She stood
up, placed her hand on his head gently and went back out of the lounge bumping
into Matthew in the hallway.

“Oh. Hi, Matt,” she said, resisting the huge temptation to hug him. He
wasn’t always in the mood for hugs these days.

“Alright,” he nodded slightly. She looked up at him, her eyes resting on
his practically shaved head. He used to have thick, dark brown hair, which he
liked to push up into soft, trendy spikes at the front of head. Until a week
ago.
Was it really only a week?
Last
Saturday he had left to go into town, a perfectly normal trip with his friends,
only to return looking like a night club bouncer. Helen remembered the moment
she had first seen it. She had walked into the kitchen as he pulled his head out
of the fridge and gasped, “Wow! What have you done?”

“It’s
my
hair!” He replied
indignantly.

“Was,” she said, but her attempt at a joke was lost. He had stomped out
of the room. He was right of course, it was his hair. But she had always taken
him to the hairdressers in the past. This time he made his own decision, with
no discussion. Her mother had been much calmer (although she had openly
admitted to Helen that she didn’t like it later, when they were on their own.) “Are
you pleased with it?” was all she had asked him as he passed her in the
hallway. “It’s OK,” he shrugged, before disappearing to his room.

Helen was aware that he was growing up, not just physically, but also
mentally, hormonally. She never seemed to say the right thing these days.

“How are things?” she asked, hoping to sound cool, relaxed.

“
Umph
. Alright,” he grunted this time, reaching
into his pocket for his mobile phone.

“I’m making dinner,” she added brightly.

 
“OK,” he said without looking up.
She’d lost him. He was already texting, his fingers busily moving over the
buttons.

She walked into the kitchen to find her mother sitting at the table, head
stuck in a book.

 
“Hi.” She flashed her a weary
smile and crossed to the fridge.

Jane
Lavery
put the book down. “Hi, darling.
How’s the case?”

“Hectic, drying up, desperately in need of a good lead . . .” She turned
to face her, rubbing her forehead. “How was your day?”

 
“Not bad actually,” she mused, “beat
Matt at Wii bowls. A look of triumph appeared on her face. “What about
you
?”