Bloody Mary (27 page)

When questioned about the missing passport he denied any knowledge of a theft, telling them it was, as far as he knew, in the safe at his parent’s villa, where it had been since the day they moved over. This had led to some suspicion, DI Garcia commenting that passports were needed on visits to the bank, buying property, in fact, anything official, but Darren explained the Spanish bank account was solely in his name, as was the apartment, so there had never been a need for Sophie to use her passport after arriving in the country.

He was kept in the room while his parent’s were interviewed individually, and they backed the story relating exactly the same details. Garcia knew from instinct that they were lying, or maybe telling half-truths, but none would budge on the details.

The late hours of the evening, and the early hours of the morning were tedious, and eventually Maureen, and Bob, had fallen asleep on the hard chairs of the corridor. Inside the room, Darren, who had consistently pleaded his ignorance to the murder, regardless of Garcia’s many attempts to catch him out, finally admitted that he had gone to Vicki’s and found her dead, explaining that he panicked and ran, and Garcia believed he was getting somewhere at last. His needling and accusations increased, Darren even cried with frustration and tiredness, but then, at four in the morning, the sky just beginning to lighten from the stark blackness, a knock at the door heralded some unexpected news: the DNA of the skin cells scraped from the nails of the victim was from a female. Vicki had been killed by a woman, and, as a result, Darren was free to go, with a lame caution for not having informed the police when he’d found Vicki’s body.

It had been a sleepless night for Harry and I, spent in the same bed for the first time since our cohabitation, our mutual needs of a comforting cuddle having made the decision an un-discussed understanding. As the darkness behind the shutters ebbed away, heralding the new day, Harry gave up and sat, propped against the pillows, while I prepared us each a mug of tea, bringing them through to sup in bed. I climbed back under the covers. “I can’t imagine we’ll see Darren again. What are we going to say to Sophie?”

Harry sighed heavily, tired and cranky. “Oh, I don’t know. This is all too much, I’ve had enough. I think the best thing is to get Sophie and the baby away from this damned place as soon as we can. Now we’ve seen what Darren Delaney’s capable of, I don’t know about you, but I fear for her safety. Well, the baby’s too. And ours, for that matter.”

“But the passport?” I sipped the steaming tea, the heat waking me a little more.

“There must be something we can do. I mean, people lose their passports all the time, there must be a way to replace it. Maybe the embassy can help, I don’t know, I’m too tired to think clearly at the moment.”

Having finally returned to the villa at half-past four, Maureen had gone straight to bed, but Bob stayed up, fixing a couple of hefty drinks in an attempt to annul the thoughts that were whirring through his head. The whole night had been a dreadful ordeal, the police had seemed convinced that Darren was a murderer, and seeing him being tormented by their incessant questioning through the glass, unable to hear what was being said, had been traumatic.

The excess alcohol filling his bladder, he crept through the bedroom to the en-suite bathroom, preferring it to the main toilet because the book he was currently reading was in there, maybe another chapter on the comfort of the loo would take his mind off things. He was just about to unzip his trousers, when he noticed the sleeve of Maureen’s new coat hanging from the linen basket. Reasoning that she’d dropped it in there by accident along with her clothes, he lifted the wicker lid and dragged it out.

Dropping it on the floor as a reminder to hang it up on the coat pegs when he’d finished his business, it fell open, revealing vast, dried blood stains on the lining. His jaw dropped open, momentarily suspecting his wife had hurt herself, then another, more revolting, thought loomed. Throwing the lid aside, Bob tugged out the clothes Maureen had been wearing the previous day, the top sickeningly glistening with blackening scarlet. He stopped, unable to move, unable to think, and with dread, suddenly realised how much being a hands-on grandmother meant to Maureen.

He closed the lid of the toilet and sat, the offensive clothing lying at his feet, reminding Bob of her desperation, and was at a loss for what to do, to say. Did he report her and lose her to a prison sentence? Did he say nothing and live with such a horrendous lie. And, quite apart from that, if she was capable of murdering Vicki for a passport, just to keep their granddaughter on the island, what else would she be prepared to do? No wonder she’d been so insistent that they all relate the same, well-rehearsed story to the police: it was her they were protecting with an alibi, not Darren.

The minutes ticked by as Bob sifted through the recent months in his head. He’d been complacent to go along with Maureen and Darren’s plan to feed Sophie alcohol throughout the pregnancy, knowing she had a weakness for it, it had seemed harmless with Darren’s persevering reassurances that he wouldn’t give her enough to cause the baby to have fetal alcohol syndrome, just enough to raise a question once the child arrived, give them an excuse to declare Sophie as an unfit mother, and claim the baby for themselves. But that had backfired when the baby arrived fit and healthy, and without Darren’s presence at the birth, the issue of alcohol had not been raised.

Maybe Sophie taking little Jaimee back to England was the best solution. As long as Maureen wanted the baby, as long as she was able to get at her, the people around her were in danger: she was a woman possessed. The words she’d uttered the previous evening, not realising their significance at the time, floated chillingly into his head, making him shudder: ‘Nobody says no to me.’

Bob’s own stance on helping to bring up the tot while Darren worked wasn’t as fervent as Maureen’s, and he realised what he was going to have to do: take the passport back. But he’d need to know where they were living before he passed it to Sophie, at least then he could discuss reasonable visitation rights, perhaps an agreement drawn up by a solicitor.

Checking that Maureen was asleep, Bob replaced the clothes in the laundry basket and crept into the bedroom, around the divan, to his bedside cabinet. He quietly drew open the top drawer, retrieving the key to the safe, and tiptoed to the wardrobe, removing the wooden base. He removed the passport from the safe and tucked it into his pocket.

The pretty whimpering woke Sophie from her contented sleep, and she beamed a smile as it dawned on her that the delicate sound was that of her new daughter. Tenderly, she sat, leaning into the cot, and retrieved Jaimee, cuddling her close before attaching her for her nourishment. Breastfeeding hadn’t come naturally the day before, but after several attempts, both mother and baby were gradually overcoming the problems. The serenity withered when Bob, unkempt and unshaven, still in the clothes from the previous day, strode in and sat beside them.

“Then I need to know where you’re living. I’ll give you your passport back, but I want to arrange some formal visitation rights before I give it to you.”

“If I tell you the address, how do I know you’ll give it back?”

Bob, the lack of sleep now pounding his head and affecting his mind, sighed. “Look, let me know when you’re ready to leave here. I’ll come by, give you the passport, and drive you back home.” Sophie mulled the suggestion for a few moments, and agreed. Now the formal arrangements were through, Bob finally focused on Jaimee, smiling. “Can I hold her?”

Sophie gently tugged the nuzzling baby from her shoulder, and Bob took her, grinning adoringly at the tiny fingers, alert blue eyes, cherub lips, and mop of raven hair. “She’s beautiful.”

“I know. I was wondering when one of you lot would bother to take any notice of her!” Sophie couldn’t help her sarcasm, the Delaneys’ ignorance towards the child she’d nurtured within her for so long hurt deeply.

Bob arrived back at the villa just after eight, and was relieved that his wife was still asleep, the more time that passed before she discovered the passport missing, the better, as far as he was concerned. If Sophie did go back to England, she hadn’t said as much, he knew he would miss his little granddaughter, the short time they’d had to bond in the hospital was enough to grasp his heart, but he accepted it would be the best solution for mother and baby to get as far away from this mess as possible.

He poured a stiff drink, hoping it would lull him into a nap, taking it to the sofa and lying back against the cushions before closing his eyes. Welcome sleep was upon him in moments, his conscience clear: he’d done the right thing.

Eager to get the incident over and done with, DI Garcia took the details of Victoria Halliday’s murder to his superior, explaining what had happened, what forensic evidence they had, and his theory of what had lead up to the fateful event. In his belief, when Victoria had returned home from work, she had inadvertently disturbed an intruder at work, this supposition concluded from the chaos of her bedroom. Drawers had been dragged out, the contents thrown onto the floor, the wardrobe doors were open, with hangers and clothes ripped from the rail, and her handbag, unzipped, contained no cash. It seemed the place had been ransacked in a search for something, most credibly money. His suggestion was that, on being disturbed by Victoria’s return, the raider panicked, grabbed a knife, and stabbed her in a tussle. Case cut and dried.

His boss mulled the idea for a short while, sipping his coffee, and eating several biscuits, before nodding. “
Supongo que eso suena probablemente. Guarde el caso en archivo, y marqúelo como sin resolver. Si conseguimos nunca un fósforo de la DNA, we’ve consiguió a nuestro hombre
.”

“
Mujer, Sir
.” Garcia kicked himself for not having mentioned the DNA was from a female, also wishing he’d not corrected his superior, he was bound to consider a woman burglar too unusual to warrant filing the case as unsolved. So close!

The large man, excess fat rippling through the stretched buttons of his white shirt, balding head reflecting the fluorescent light, eyed Garcia, his mind ticking this new information over, pondering if his officer’s time was better spent on other work. To Garcia, the seconds seemed like hours, and he was on tenterhooks when his boss finally concluded the conversation. “
Archívelo
.” He let his breath out, and grinned with relief.

Garcia headed back to his office, a spring in his step now he no longer needed to investigate the death, and bragged the news to his colleagues. They had all guessed he would try and offload the file as soon as possible, he hated foreigners with a passion, he never failed to ensure everybody knew it, and being put in charge of the murder of a British girl was inappropriate. Benita Lopéz was furious, pointing out that the lock to the flat wasn’t damaged, so an intruder couldn’t have gained entry without either having a key, or being invited in by Victoria, both of which would suggest the girl knew her killer. Garcia waved his hand, dismissive, channelling his irritation to the woman with his glare. “
Extranjeros sangrientos! Beben demasiado, they’re violento, y they’re estúpido. Césped
Victoria Halliday!”

Benita returned his stare, before throwing her paperwork onto the desk and storming out, prepared to aggravate her colleague by challenging his conclusion with their superior.

Minutes later she returned, strode to Garcia’s desk, and proudly informed him that the decision to archive the murder had been reversed, and she was now the official investigating officer. Having relayed her triumphant victory over the sexist man she despised, Benita took the file and left the office, intent on finding out as much about Victoria, her life, and her death, as she could.

Bob had managed to catch four hours sleep on the sofa, and woke feeling renewed, to the delicious aroma of bacon, and he smiled in anticipation of his favourite lunch. He trotted through to the kitchen and greeted Maureen and Darren, taking the plate laden with bacon butties, which Maureen handed him. “We were just discussing how we’re going to get the baby away from Sophie, get her back here where she belongs.”

Bob, guilt rising, grabbed a roll from the plate and took a large bite, avoiding having to reply to the statement. Darren continued. “I still think we should tell the hospital about Sophie’s drinking during the pregnancy. It must have affected the baby somehow, has to have, otherwise they wouldn’t say in all the books that you shouldn’t have alcohol in pregnancy. It’s common sense.”

Maureen took a butty, nibbling at the crust. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I suppose that’s our best option, really. I mean, other than snatch the baby, or kidnap her with her mother, what other choice do we have?” She and Darren laughed, Bob taking another gigantic bite to avoid being part of the conversation, praying he would get a call from Sophie soon so they could end this ridiculous plotting, and, by coincidence, the phone began to ring. Dropping his food onto the plate, Bob raced through to the living room to answer.

Less than a minute later he returned, grabbed the half eaten roll, taking a bite, and took his car keys from the basket on the kitchen side. “I’ve just got to go out for a short while.” He pecked Maureen on the cheek. “I’ll be a couple of hours at most.”

Confused, Bob rarely went anywhere without her, Maureen grabbed his arm, tugging him back. “Where are you going?”

Expecting the question, although disconcerted it had been asked, he issued the lie he’d already prepared. “That was Paul, he needs help with moving some furniture. Back soon.” He rushed away before Maureen could continue her interrogation.