Eye Contact (20 page)

Everything was just as she’d left it – clothes in the wardrobe, make-up and skincare products on the dressing table, a pretty little jewellery box next to her bedside lamp, on top of the book she’d been reading. He’d resisted every offer of help, every kind suggestion to clear things up. Nothing was different, except for the ugly web of cracks in the mirror he’d made on that first night back here. He’d not slept in this room since.

Her presence was much stronger here, and the terrible sense of loss more intense. When he took flowers to her in the cemetery, it was somehow disconnected and remote, as though it was happening to somebody else. It was different here. This room was where he spoke to her, where he mourned her.

The duvet felt soft and welcoming compared to the sofa bed he slept on downstairs. He eased himself gently onto his side of the bed, reaching out to retrieve the nightshirt from under her pillows. Lying down, he scrunched his face into the soft fabric, eyes tight shut. The smell of her clothes and her hair had always provided a sense of comfort, but even that had faded now, and he was unable to recall her scent. Curling up, he buried his face in the pillow, sliding his arm out across the empty half of the bed.

And wept.

‘So how have you been, Graham?’ Jean asked.

Harland sat with his hands on his knees, staring down at the beige carpet. It felt different coming here today – none of the usual reluctance, just a weary sense of resignation as though all the fight had gone out of him. He glanced up at Jean and managed an empty smile. She was wearing a casual grey jacket with a knee-length skirt and patent-leather shoes, her mousy hair gathered back so that it fell behind her shoulders. Their eyes met for a moment, then he looked at the floor again.

‘It’s been . . . difficult recently,’ he admitted. ‘The past few weeks . . .’

She watched him calmly as he faltered, giving him a moment before gently breaking the silence.

‘Well, it’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen you,’ she said patiently. ‘Perhaps you can tell me about what’s been happening in that time.’

He took a breath, tried to compose himself a little, then nodded.

‘I have missed a couple of appointments,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘It’s all right,’ she nodded. ‘How have things been?’

Harland sat back in his chair.

‘Up and down,’ he began, then paused and shook his head. There was no point pretending. ‘Down quite a bit lately. I don’t know, maybe I just need more sleep, but little things have been bothering me, and I’ve been finding it hard to keep a lid on my emotions.’

He glanced up at her, willing her to take the conversation from him. Talking wasn’t easy just now.

‘I see.’ Jean sat back in her chair, notebook balanced on a slender knee. ‘Have you had any difficulty sleeping recently?’

‘I’ve had a few rough nights, yes.’

‘Difficulty getting to sleep again?’

He glanced up at her and nodded.

Jean wrote something in her book, then inclined her head and gazed silently at him.

‘What was keeping you awake?’ she asked.

Wasn’t it obvious?

‘I’ve been thinking about Alice a lot.’ He felt he had to speak carefully, control the rate at which he released the words in case they got away from him, pulled him too close to the edge.

‘That’s understandable,’ Jean said. ‘When do you find yourself thinking about her most?’

‘Evenings usually,’ he shrugged. ‘When I get home it’s sometimes not too bad, but lately . . .’

. . . it had been getting worse and worse.

‘Has she been on your mind more frequently in the last couple of weeks?’

He nodded, eyes downcast, saying nothing.

‘All right,’ Jean said. She paused for a moment, then asked, ‘Can you think of anything that might have triggered this?’

Harland’s shoulders sagged a little.

‘I fell asleep in our bed.’ He hesitated, then sighed. ‘In our
old
bed.’

Jean looked up from her notes.

‘Are you sleeping in another room?’

‘Yes.’ No need to elaborate – just keep it simple. For some reason he didn’t want to tell her that he camped out on the living-room sofa.

Jean put her book on the table and leaned forward, clasping her hands.

‘Why were you in there, in your old bed?’

Harland raised his head a little. He suddenly felt cold, exposed.

‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged. ‘I just needed to feel close to her I suppose.’

‘Okay,’ Jean nodded. ‘And what happened?’

‘I lay down on the bed, must have fallen asleep . . .’ He sighed. ‘I had a dream about her.’

‘Do you remember the dream?’

Harland nodded.

‘Can you tell me about it?’ she asked.

‘We were together, in a meadow with long grass . . . fooling around.’

‘Fooling around?’

He bowed his head, struggling with the memory.

‘We were having sex,’ he said quietly.

‘I see.’

Harland shut his eyes tightly. He hoped she didn’t see, hoped she couldn’t divine how he’d woken up to that awful moment of confusion, how he’d wondered where Alice was before the sickening realisation had come flooding back. He didn’t want her to know how he’d sat there, sobbing uncontrollably as he’d felt the sticky warmth in his shorts, humiliation on top of his loss.

Shame and fear swirled around him – he had to say something, move the conversation on.

‘Maybe I just need to drink less coffee,’ he said, looking up with a weak smile.

Jean’s large blue eyes studied him for a moment.

‘Graham, have you been sexually active with anyone since Alice passed away?’

She knew.
She knew exactly what had happened. But at least she was allowing him the opportunity to gloss over it.

‘No,’ he said quietly. There was an uncomfortable thrill in telling her this. Was it the release of opening up, even partially, to someone else? Or was it that he found the discussion of sex with another woman exciting? Jean was certainly attractive. Gazing at her legs, he suddenly felt a guilty flush of arousal.

‘No,’ he said, more to himself this time. ‘I’m not seeing anyone.’

The conflict raged within him but he forced it down, as he forced down other unwelcome emotions.
Bury it deep, starve it of oxygen until he couldn’t feel it any more.
He set his jaw and forced himself to meet her steady gaze.

‘All right, Graham,’ she said after a long moment. ‘Have there been any other significant events since we spoke last?’

And just like that, the crisis passed. Her questions moved away to other matters – work, diet, exercise – and he coasted through the rest of their discussion.

But as he sat there, watching the clock above her desk counting down the minutes to the end of the session, he felt an odd sense of resentment building inside him. And unlike lust, that was impossible to subdue.

Harland stalked into the meeting room. He’d been in a bad mood anyway, and this part of the morning was unlikely to improve things. Putting his coffee on the table, he walked over to the window and stared out at the traffic for a moment, idly wondering if he had time to slip downstairs for a cigarette. But it wasn’t to be. Behind him, the door opened and he turned to see Pope enter, followed by Mendel. He sighed and walked round to his seat.

‘What’s this little get-together in aid of?’ Pope asked, opening his notebook and squinting up at the others through his glasses.

‘Progress review on the Severn Beach killing,’ Harland said quietly as he sat down. ‘And Blake wants to
have a word
with us.’

‘Must be serious then,’ Pope nodded thoughtfully.

Mendel caught Harland’s eye but remained silent. They both knew how this was likely to go, but there was nothing they could do about it now.

Blake arrived exactly on the stroke of ten, breezing into the room and making his way to the head of the table, where he pulled out his chair but remained standing for a moment.

‘Good morning,’ he said, as though noticing them for the first time. ‘All present and correct? Good, good.’

He sat down, leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table in front of him.

‘Now then,’ he began. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on this Severn Beach business over the last few weeks and I thought it was high time we had a frank discussion about where we are, and how we see things proceeding.’

Harland listened, his eyes fixed on the coffee cup in front of him. A frank discussion about how
Blake
saw things proceeding would be more accurate.

‘Graham’s been filling me in on the progress of the investigation, but I thought it might be useful to include everyone in this.’ The Superintendent paused, looking at each of them for a moment, then adopted a chilly little smile. ‘James, perhaps you’d like to start us off?’

‘Sir?’ Mendel sat up in his chair.

‘I’m interested to hear your perspective,’ Blake said. ‘How do you feel things are going?’

‘Well,’ Mendel’s eyes flickered to Harland, then back to the Superintendent. ‘It’s a strange one, really. At first it seemed like a pretty standard sort of job. Boyfriend gone bad, maybe. Or I suppose it might have been an opportunistic hit by some weirdo, but I was never really sure about that, to be honest.’

Pope frowned at this, but Mendel pressed on.

‘Anyway, that was how it looked at first, but then everything changed when we got a match on that house key from the Oxford murder.’

‘Go on,’ Blake nodded, patiently.

‘Well,’ Mendel shrugged, ‘when we connected those two deaths, the theories didn’t fit any more. We dug around but there’s nothing else to link the two victims, and with the distance between them, it’s quite possible our killer comes from outside the area.’

Harland dug his shoes into the carpet as Mendel spoke, anger welling up inside him. What the hell was Blake playing at, undermining him in such a blatant way? The pompous idiot already knew this, so why ask to hear it all again?

‘Then we found out about the body in Brighton and the one in Hampshire,’ Mendel continued. ‘Again, no apparent connection with the other victims except the single souvenir that linked them.’

‘Souvenir,’ Blake mused quietly. He didn’t look up, but focused on his finger as it traced a series of tiny circles on the table in front of him. ‘That word has disturbing connotations.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Mendel said, risking a barely perceptible shrug towards Harland. ‘Anyway, now it looks like we’ve got hold of something big. This could tie in any number of unsolved deaths, and we’re pretty close to the front of things, if the timeline’s anything to go by.’

‘The front of things?’

‘What I mean is, some of these cases go back a good few months. Ours is one of the most recent – there’s only the Hampshire one that we know of since.’

‘I see.’ Blake nodded to himself for a moment. ‘Thank you, James.’

Harland glanced at him, suddenly beginning to grasp what was going on. The Superintendent was leading Mendel along, getting him to restate their same unsatisfactory position, before letting Pope muddy the waters.

‘Russell?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Pope looked along the table attentively.

‘What’s your view on all this?’

‘It’s been quite a challenging case,’ Pope began. He leaned forward in his chair, clearly relishing the audience. ‘At first the evidence suggested a failed sexual assault or something of that nature. There have been one or two similar incidences along the Severn Estuary, so it was a natural line of enquiry to follow.’

Harland gritted his teeth as Blake nodded approvingly. This wasn’t going anywhere useful.

‘The house key we found on Vicky Sutherland did seem to indicate a link between our victim and the man found dead in Oxford,’ Pope continued. ‘Thames Valley now think there may be some connection to another body found washed up at Brighton, and Mendel did turn up an item belonging to the dead woman on a body recently discovered in Hampshire.’

‘And your conclusions are?’ Blake asked.

‘Well, sir, it
could
all be the work of one man. We might be dealing with a serial murderer of some kind, but I think we have to keep our minds open to all possibilities.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, just because something from one victim turns up somewhere else, it isn’t necessarily proof of a direct link.’ He looked around at the others. ‘I mean, an item stolen from one victim could well turn up in the possession of another, and that sort of false positive could steer us in the wrong direction. I’m not saying I think this is the case, just that we shouldn’t attach too much credibility to any single theory.’

Mendel was shaking his head.

‘It’s all very well keeping an open mind,’ he interrupted, ‘but these souvenirs are the only tangible leads we’ve got. We
have
to figure out what their significance is, and we really need to see if there’s another link in the chain, something tied in with the next murder.’

‘If there even
is
a next murder . . .’ Pope muttered.

From his place at the end of the table, the Superintendent watched the two of them arguing, his face serene. Harland looked away in disgust. Exactly as the scheming old bastard had planned it. And Pope had played his witless part too.

‘If I may?’ Blake spoke quietly, forcing a sudden silence from the others. ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I think it’s clear that while there are still a number of avenues for us to explore, this is becoming a more complex matter, and we may need to re-evaluate how we can best serve the ongoing investigation. Certainly, there are local aspects to the case, and we must be seen to be doing everything necessary on these . . .’

He paused, looking briefly at each of them, then sat back in his chair and gazed up at the clock on the far wall.

‘However, I do take on board the point about the most recent murder being in Hampshire, so perhaps the ball is now moving more into their court.’

What the hell . . .?

Harland’s head snapped up at this.

‘With respect, sir.’ The words were coming now, and all he could do was control the volume, stifle the urge to shout. ‘
We
put this together. We made the link to the Oxford murder and it was Mendel who tied in the Hampshire one. Up until then, these were just three separate unsolved cases.’