Dead Secret (12 page)

She tried telling herself that her motivation for seeing Taylor was sound; he was a good-looking, intelligent guy and he was clearly attracted to her. So far, so normal. What wasn’t so normal was the ambivalence of her feelings for him. On the one hand, she felt physically attracted to him; on the other, she felt repulsed by him; moreover, agreeing to meet him was not entirely without ulterior motive.

Acknowledging that she was attracted to him was preferable to admitting that she had a ‘gut feeling,’ about the guy. She tried telling herself this was based on knowledge accumulated from past experience, rather than prejudice. Was it possible to think someone was creepy and still be attracted to them? Next thing, she’d be writing to convicted murderers expressing her undying love.

Ava unpinned the elaborate pleat and shook out her hair. On both of the previous occasions that she’d met Taylor, she’d had it tied up or back. Let him believe she wasn’t on duty this evening.

* * *

“You look gorgeous,” Taylor said, pecking Ava on the cheek when they met outside the restaurant an hour later. A pretty waitress with a sexy Italian accent showed them to their seats. Taylor whistled admiringly as Ava removed her jacket, his eyes all over her. She’d chosen to wear a short, floaty silk dress in inky blue, with a plunging neckline.

“You really are a very beautiful girl, Ava.”

“I prefer ‘woman,’ but thank you all the same.” She allowed her eyes to linger on him a moment, “You’re not so bad yourself, Professor.” Taylor’s slightly wavy hair was slicked back and curled over his shirt collar at the back; his skin was smooth and unlined and his aftershave brand was familiar and chic. Ava visualised the expensive male grooming products jostling for space in his bathroom cabinet.

Taylor ordered a bottle of champagne. “Are we celebrating?” Ava asked.

“Being in the company of a beautiful
woman
is cause enough for celebration, but as a matter of fact I do have something else to be happy about. I heard from my publisher a couple of days ago; it seems that my book is the subject of a bidding war.”

“You’ve written a book?” Ava had read about this on Taylor’s Facebook page.

“What’s it about? Metawhatsit poets?”

Taylor smiled, “I’ve written a number of scholarly articles on the metaphysical poets but no, it’s a novel.” He looked so ridiculously puffed up and pleased that Ava had to stifle a laugh.

“So, what’s it about?” she asked.

“I suppose the overarching theme is love and betrayal,” Taylor said, a patronising edge creeping into his tone, “but I suspect you want to know about the plot?”

“Well, duh!” Ava said, “Don’t most people like a book with a good story?”

“Well, actually, like a lot of literary fiction, it’s rather loosely plotted. My protagonist is an attractive, intellectual man in his thirties who . . .”

“. . . So, it’s kind of autobiographical?” Ava interrupted. The question was playful but it seemed to annoy Taylor.

“I’m a writer, Ava. All writers bring influences and experiences from their lives to their work, but my novel is first and foremost a work of fiction.”

The champagne arrived and Ava graciously toasted Taylor’s success as a man of letters. She studied him as he dealt with the waitress, who was clearly captivated by his manners and charm — that word again — it tripped off the lips with such ease where Taylor was concerned.

Ava took a sip of champagne, holding it in her mouth before swallowing, enjoying the delightful sensation of creamy bubbles exploding on the roof of her mouth, making her feel light-headed with anticipation. Without realising it, she had closed her eyes and when she opened them, Taylor was looking at her with amusement.

“What?” she said, embarrassed, “I don’t often drink champagne. Got to make the most of it.”

“You are a very sensual woman, Ava,” he said, circling the back of her hand with the tip of his elegant finger, “seeing how sipping champagne can send you into such raptures makes me wonder how you would respond to a lover’s caresses.”

“Keep wondering,” Ava snorted. She was trying her best to seem unflustered, but the truth was, Taylor’s caresses were sending little bolts of electricity all through her body. From his slow, satisfied smile, she could tell he was enjoying her discomfort.

The waitress arrived with their hors d’oeuvres and they ate and talked, the soft candlelight flickering warmly between them, creating a sense of intimacy, which was enhanced by the effect of the champagne. To her surprise, Ava found herself beginning to relax in Taylor’s company, to the extent that she admitted googling his biography. Maybe not such a bad move, as he was obviously flattered that she had done so.

“So, you know all about me, do you?” he asked.

“Not at all. A few paragraphs about your academic credentials reveals nothing about the man,” Ava said. “Tell me something about the real Christopher Taylor.”

“Well, I was almost a plumber.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“My old man’s got his own plumbing and heating business. Wanted me to learn the trade, join the business. Unfortunately for my father, I didn’t want to spend my life with my head stuck down a toilet.” He looked at Ava, “Your turn. Tell me something I don’t know about you.”

“Not a lot to tell. My parents divorced when I was quite young. Wanted to be a vet when I was a kid. Did A levels, went to university, gave it up after a year and became a cop.”

“Why did you give up after a year?”

“Personal reasons.”

“Boyfriend trouble?”

“Something like that. That’s all you’re going to get,” Ava added, surprised that she’d even alluded to her disastrous university experience. Alcohol loosened her tongue; she seldom drank in company and she needed to be more circumspect, especially with this man, who it seemed was capable of making her confide things she seldom talked about.

At the end of the meal, Taylor requested the bill and Ava offered to pay her share, hoping he’d decline — which he did, to her relief when she saw how much the champagne alone had cost. Even tipping the waitress would have left her short.

“How about coffee at my place? It’s only five minutes’ walk away,” Taylor asked as they left the Bistro. Ava considered his offer. She was still feeling tipsy from the champagne and the excellent wine Taylor had selected to accompany their meal. Driving home was out of the question, and the prospect of spending the night with the charming professor was too tempting to resist, it seemed, for she found herself agreeing without thinking much about the implications.

He slipped his arm around her waist as they strolled down the long hill, pulling her close until they were joined at the hip. As if in anticipation of the pleasure ahead, they began walking faster and there was no doubt that their minds were occupied with a single thought.

As soon as they reached his front door, Taylor pulled Ava into the hall of his townhouse and slammed the door behind them. It was built on three levels, and Ava wondered if they would make it to the bedroom, so urgent was their desire.

On the first level, Taylor pushed her into the lounge where he’d received her and Neal a few days earlier, and pinned her against the wall, kissing her and sliding his hand inside her dress to caress her breasts. Ava moaned with pleasure. Then, just as she thought they were about to do it right there against the wall, Taylor scooped her into his arms and carried her effortlessly upstairs to his bedroom.

“I’ve been imagining this all evening,” Taylor said, as he unzipped the silk dress and let it slip from her shoulders.

“And I thought we were connecting on an intellectual level; all you wanted was my body.”

“From the minute I saw you walking towards my house with that dour Scots DI, I’ve wanted nothing else.” For a fleeting second, Jim Neal’s face flashed into Ava’s mind, inducing a peculiarly displaced feeling of guilt. Then it was gone, dismissed by Taylor’s kisses and caresses and her own overwhelming urge to devour and enjoy his body as he was enjoying hers.

* * *

The next morning, Ava awoke suddenly, startled by the unfamiliar softness of the bed and the presence of another body in a warm, heavy sleep by her side. A bolt of pain shot through her head as she turned to see whose bed it was that she was sharing. Taylor was lying on his front, face squashed against the mattress, snoring softly. One long leg was wrapped around the cover, pulling it down, exposing his long, lean naked body all the way down his left side. Lust and repulsion vied for dominance in Ava’s alcohol-befuddled brain. The events of the night before rushed into her thoughts: the dinner, the champagne, the sex. How could she have let things get so out of control?

Quiet as a cat, she slipped out of bed and gathered her clothes. In Taylor’s en-suite bathroom, she splashed her face, cleaned her teeth with her fingers and some borrowed toothpaste, gargled some mouthwash and crept back into the bedroom, holding her breath lest she should awaken Taylor and be tempted back into his bed.

Downstairs, Ava toyed with the idea of snooping round a little. Taylor had appeared to be fast asleep, and she was sure she would hear him stirring in time, but she was also anxious to be out of his house as quickly as possible.

She hovered a moment outside the lounge, then slipped inside.

Taylor’s laptop was lying on a chair, but there hardly seemed any point even taking a look since it was bound to be password protected. Ava turned it on anyway. When asked for a password, she typed in some random letters, hoping for a forgotten password prompt that would be as easy to decipher as her own. To her astonishment, it was. Taylor’s prompt was, ‘poetry’ and she typed ‘metaphysical’ in the box.

Hardly believing her luck, she searched through a number of files, finding nothing but information on various aspects of English literature — clearly this was the laptop Taylor used for work. There were also a number of files that were obviously related to research for his novel, and drafts of the novel itself. Ava stifled a yawn as she read through the first paragraph, quickly deciding it wasn’t likely to be her sort of book.

The power light started to flash a warning. A charger lay on the desk beside a black scarab paperweight, but Ava had seen all she needed to see. If Taylor had anything to hide, he knew better than to leave clues on a laptop that offered such easy access to its content.

Taylor’s elegant eighteenth century writing desk was the next obvious place to search. Ava pulled out drawers and rifled through them with a trained eye, turning over papers and flicking through notebooks, being careful to return everything exactly as she’d found it.

Next, she searched Taylor’s writing bureau. He was an organised man, she noted, everything filed away in cardboard wallets with the contents clearly written on the cover. One was labelled, ‘photographs,’ but it was quite slim and in fact contained only one picture. Curious, Ava held it up to the light. It was an image from a newspaper showing a smiling Taylor surrounded by Asian women. The caption had been cut off but it was clear that he was their teacher and Ava had already done enough fishing around in Taylor’s background to know that he had taught English as a foreign language in some sort of community centre in Sheffield.

She was about to return the picture to its wallet, when she was struck by the smiling face of a lovely young girl, clearly the daughter of the woman beside her, who was also attractive but not as stunning. Ava turned the picture over to see a single name on the back: ‘Rohina.’ For some reason, Ava felt her detective senses tingle. She toyed with the idea of pocketing the photograph, but that was far too risky. Instead she used her phone to take a picture and returned the photo to its wallet and back into the drawer. With a last furtive look upstairs, Ava stepped outside into the waiting morning.

The road sloped steeply away from Taylor’s townhouse, and though she longed to run, Ava was forced to walk slowly and carefully in her high heels. It was after seven now and there was a chill in the autumn air that hinted at frosty mornings to come, but Ava scarcely noticed the cold. As she walked the empty early morning streets, conscious that she looked like she had spent the night in someone else’s bed, she was too wrapped up in thoughts about Christopher Taylor, the mysterious photograph and concerns about her own conscience to bemoan the lack of a warmer coat.

Chapter 11

“Bradley Turner’s school record doesn’t show anything particularly out of the ordinary behaviour-wise,” Ava said to Neal as she plonked a mug of steaming coffee on the smiley face coaster on his desk, a present from Archie. Under her arm was the report from the investigating officer, which she’d read through, preparing to brief Neal.

“His behaviour gave no cause for concern. Described by most of his teachers as a quiet lad who wasn’t particularly academic, but had an aptitude for art and design. Used to helping his dad out in his workshop, knew he wanted to design and make furniture from early on and obtained the qualifications he needed to get him on the right course. He’s currently in his second year of a furniture design course at a college in Sheffield.”

“Any issues at college?” Neal asked.

“He shares a flat with another lad, also a student. Other students on his course didn’t have a lot to say about him except that he tends to keep himself to himself, but no one expressed dislike of him. No inappropriate behaviour towards girls, but . . .” Ava paused a moment for effect, “his flatmate said Bradley told him he was going out with a girl from home.”

“Amy Hill?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, his love certainly wasn’t reciprocated. To Amy, Bradley was just someone she had to put up with because of her mother’s relationship with his father,” Neal commented. “And we know he was aggressive towards her on at least one occasion.”

“She mocked and ridiculed him both privately and publicly. Did his love turn to hate?” Ava mused.

“Forensics haven’t come up with anything that would place him at the scene of the crime. And I can’t help feeling that a spurned lover would want his victim to see his face as he killed her. Amy’s killer was efficient and quick, almost in the manner of an executioner who cared nothing for his victim.”

“Like a hit man. He just wanted the job done quickly,” Ava agreed.

“Exactly,” answered Neal, “there’s also Simon Foster. As far as we’re aware, Amy and Simon didn’t know each other well, despite the fact their mothers were friends. But we know that Simon was probably stalking Amy, and that for some reason Amy regarded his presence as non-threatening, protective even. Was that a misconception on her part or did she have a genuine reason for trusting him? And if so, what was it?”

“She already knew him and decided he wasn’t a threat to her?” suggested Ava.

“Maybe,” said Neal, “Simon’s disappearance certainly makes him appear guilty, despite Anna Foster’s insistence that he was with her on the night of the murder. And, he had a trauma in his childhood that may have skewed his moral development.”

Ava nodded, “His mother described him as being gentle and kind, naïve almost in his trust of other people’s goodness. She’s obviously biased, but the same words keep coming up when we question other people about him.”

“Well, if our training and experience as police officers tells us anything, it’s to be alert to the hidden lives people often lead, that no one in their immediate circle would guess at.”

Neal was referring to Simon Foster, but Ava couldn’t help thinking of Christopher Taylor.

“We need to find him,” she said, stating the obvious. “Do you think Anna Foster knows where her son is?”

“No. I think she’s as desperate as we are to know where he’s gone,” answered Neal. “She’s very protective of him, probably because of his past.”

“What about his father?” Ava asked.

“What about him? He has the soundest alibi of anyone,” Neal said, sounding surprised.

“I don’t mean as the killer,” Ava said. “That’s way out of the box. What I meant was, he’s been in prison all these years; maybe he’s used the time to reflect on his past misdeeds, wanted to make amends. Perhaps he contacted Simon recently without Anna’s knowledge and asked to see him. Simon could have gone to London to visit him.”

Ava saw Neal’s lips ruck up, but he didn’t immediately dismiss her idea. That was one of the things she had learned to appreciate about her boss; he listened and was never too quick to dismiss another person’s contribution.

“Anna Foster certainly didn’t mention that Simon had heard from his father, and I suspect it would distress her to know he’d been in touch. It’s the sort of thing Simon would hide from her, for obvious reasons. I’ll arrange for one of the local people to pay the father a call, find out if he’s a reformed character seeking redemption or forgiveness, or whatever crap these rehabilitated murderers come out with. It’s hard to see how he could hope for Simon to forgive him for his mother’s — and sister’s — murder. That’d be a tall order, even for someone as allegedly compassionate as Simon. In the meantime—” Neal was interrupted by a call on his mobile. It wasn’t Archie or Maggie; Ava was familiar with their ringtones. Besides, Neal was nodding gravely and looking at Ava as if eager to share the news with her.

“Come on,” he said, as he returned his mobile to his inside jacket pocket.

“Where are we going?” Ava asked.

“Amy Hill’s flat. Two bodies have been discovered there.”

* * *

Nancy lay on her bed on top of her crumpled white bedspread, the one she had painstakingly embroidered by hand with hundreds of tiny pink roses. It had taken her months to complete and every stitch had been a labour of love, for it was an exact replica of her grandmother’s bedspread torn up for rags, of which only one small square remained.

Richard had spent the night with her as he had every night since Amy’s death. They had rowed again the previous evening and she had told him to go home for a while, which she regretted now; in a way she found his prolonged presence in her home reassuring, not suffocating as she sometimes had.

She could still hear his words buzzing around in her befuddled brain. “Tell me what it is you’ve been keeping from me all these years, Nancy. Let me share your worries. Let me help.”

“Leave me if you can’t live with my so-called secret past,” she had yelled at him, unkindly, then, relenting, “for a few days at least. I just need some time.”

Richard had been rooting around in her head for a long time, bleating about how she could trust him with whatever baggage she had brought from her past. It had been tempting to blurt it all out, to relieve herself of the burden of carrying her secret alone. But telling him would change everything between them; like admitting to an affair, it would fester between them, poisoning any hope of a happy future.

He would try to accept what she had done — and she knew he would try quite hard, for Richard was at heart a weak man, desperate for love. However much he tried, one day, sooner or later, the words would tumble out, “You’re not the woman I thought you were.” Nancy was tired of keeping her secret. She longed for someone impartial to guide her through the moral uncertainty that had beset her throughout all the years since Amy had come into her life. She wanted someone to tell her, once and for all, that she had been right — or wrong; for she was ready to be judged, even harshly, in return for some moral clarity.

Nancy closed her eyes and kneaded her forehead with her knuckles. It was still early in the day but she had awoken with a dull headache that was sucking away any promise the day might hold. The clock on her bedside table glowed distractingly. Eleven thirty. She had risen at five, unable to sleep, and sat in the living room watching the news. She found the repetition of the same stories over and over again oddly comforting, even though she could not concentrate on the content.

At six, when Richard came downstairs, she had pretended to be asleep. He kissed her lightly on the cheek and crept from the room, leaving the TV on. To her surprise, he had not returned to kiss her again before leaving for work. She had hoped he wouldn’t, because she didn’t like deceiving him, yet she couldn’t help her prick of disappointment.

In the kitchen, she found a note saying that he would stay at his own house for a couple of days to give her some space. Tears stung Nancy’s eyes at the thought of the pain she was causing this kind-hearted man whose love she didn’t deserve.

Now, lying on her bed in a mid-morning slump, she wondered whether she would bother to move before he returned. In two days’ time would he find her still lying there, weighted to the mattress by grief and self-pity?

Someone was knocking on her front door. Nancy stood up, a sudden cramp knotting her calf and she rubbed the back of her leg vigorously for a few moments, growing irritated when the sound persisted. She made it to her bedroom window in time to see a deliveryman retreating down the garden path, a long rectangular box tucked under his arm. Flowers. From Richard, no doubt. She watched guiltily as the man took the package next door, wishing she’d gone downstairs in time to catch him. Now her nosey neighbour Maureen would have another excuse to come knocking and prying.

The light from the window made her eyes ache and the pain in her head was getting worse. She took a couple of painkillers and lay down again, hoping to sleep but, underneath the pain, her mind was intent on remembering.

The last time Nancy had seen Amy alive, her daughter had come to ‘In Stitches,’ to meet her for afternoon tea; they’d gone to the new patisserie and, as always, Amy had ordered the most expensive items on the menu. Nancy didn’t care; she was happy to see Amy, happy to pay to spend time in her company.

Amy had been wearing a smart designer dress and an expensive-looking gold and coral necklace which she claimed was a gift from a boy she had dated a couple of times. She didn’t reveal much about him, except to say that he was a student in her year and that he had wealthy parents who gave him a generous allowance. They had only dated two or three times before Amy called it a day.

Nancy hadn’t commented, except to admire the necklace, but she had wondered about it; however generous the boy’s parents were, buying such an expensive gift must have left him out of pocket. Nor was it was the sort of gift you gave someone after a couple of dates.

Amy had been wearing the necklace the night she was killed. For the time being, it was in the possession of the police in a plastic evidence bag along with the other items that her daughter had been wearing that night. Eventually it would be returned to Nancy, which was not right; Amy was supposed to inherit Nancy’s riches, not the other way around.

At last the mildly analgesic effect of the painkillers began to kick in, and Nancy felt a faint, chemically-induced glow of well-being numb the edges of her depression. Sleep would come now, deep enough, she hoped, to obliterate all sense of pain, past and present.

Perversely, she lay awake, obsessing over the past. Since Amy’s murder, she kept experiencing her past like a victim of post-traumatic stress disorder, in random flashes that shocked her with their intensity. It was like the nightmares she had suffered when she first moved to Shelton, which had lessened with time, as her carefully constructed story about the past began to seem real to her. She thought again of the night Debbie had turned up at her door, bruised and beaten, and the aggressive way Debbie had warned her off contacting social services. Knowing the care system as she did, that would be the last thing Nancy would do. She knew that the only way she could keep Peter and Emily safe was to continue to be involved in their lives, acting as a safety net between their inadequate parents and the pitfalls of state care.

After that night, and Debbie’s revelation that she had abandoned her children to the violent Wade, Nancy looked upon Debbie’s estate as a moral void, a place where you could act according to your own sense of right and wrong. Nancy was only twenty; her moral sense was inchoate. She grew to believe that, in her case at least, the ends justified the means. Now Amy’s death had resurrected all the old doubts and thrown her moral compass out of kilter.

“I’m sorry,” Nancy whispered — to Amy, to Debbie Clark’s ghost, to the girl she had been, but most of all, to Richard, for she now knew what she had to do to put things right.

* * *

A small crowd had gathered on the pavement where the emergency services were parked outside the entrance to the house where Becci and Amy had shared a home. Ava looked up at the first floor window, flinching at the sight of Nancy’s pretty handmade curtains, the thought of all those lovingly stitched cushions, the carefully chosen rugs. The house had absorbed so much tragedy in such a short time, and yet it looked so cared for. The path leading up to the door was weed and clutter free, the door itself recently painted a fresh sky blue, the brass fittings polished to a sheen.

Neal parked his car in front of the house next door, behind the gaping doors of a waiting ambulance. A paramedic greeted them with a sombre expression as they stepped out of the vehicle. Two uniformed officers standing sentinel at the gate, shuffled out of the way to let them through.

“What happened here?” Neal asked.

“Cleaner found two bodies in the back bedroom when she came by to clean the flat, sir. One male, one female, believed to be Rebecca Jones and Gary Reid. She’s inside having a cup of tea with PC Dale. Says she didn’t touch anything, just saw them on the bed and knew they were dead so she phoned 999 straightaway. Dale got here first but by then Mrs Pringle, the cleaner, had attracted the attention of a couple of neighbours. None of them’s been inside, sir, so the scene hasn’t been compromised.”

Neal nodded approvingly. ”Good work.”

Inside the house, someone, probably Dale or one of the other officers had cordoned off the stairs with crisscrossed tape. Neal and Ava ducked under the tape and took the steps to the bedroom two at a time. No doubt one of the constables would already have made notes, but Ava was jotting down her own observations.