Never Forget (13 page)

W
e drove back to the nick in silence. The air smelt of citrus fruit from Wingsy’s earlier snack. As we got to the car park entrance, waiting for the security barrier to open, only one question came from my friend. ‘Wanna talk about it?’

I let out a breath. ‘Don’t really know where to start, mate.’

He reversed into a space, but neither of us made to get out of the car. After a couple of minutes, I thought that he was at least owed an explanation, although I knew for sure that, if I opened the door and walked away, that would be that. There’d be no pressure from Wingsy.

‘Me and my sister were kidnapped when we were kids. It didn’t end well for her. I never talk about it. A couple of days ago, a stack of photographs of me came in the post in an envelope. They spanned years – decades really – as if someone had been following me for years – ’

‘Bloody hell. Why didn’t you say? You must have been terrified.’

‘Which time?’ I gave a small nervous laugh, which wasn’t fooling either of us. ‘I took the photos to Beckensale and she got them and the envelope fingerprinted. She called when we were at Lloyd’s house to say the match was Lloyd. If his prints are on them, then the chances are he sent them.’

‘Or at least had something to do with it. So when he…’

‘When he started on about his cousin being obsessed with me, then the call came, you can imagine what I was thinking.’

‘Actually, sweetheart, I can’t. Tell you this, though: Beckensale did a good job. Who do you wanna see now? Nottingham? Kim Cotton? We’d best go speak to someone.’

‘I think we’ll try Nottingham. Before we do, though, Wingsy, I need to make a call.’

I got out of the car and called Stan. He had been admitted to hospital today for his operation and I was desperate to hear his voice. I didn’t know if he’d answer his mobile in the ward, if he’d feel like talking or even if he’d be awake, but his voicemail was enough to get me through.

Eyes shut and clasping the phone to my ear, I listened to the recorded message of his deep voice telling me,
‘This is Stan McGuire’s telephone. I am not at present able to take your call, but please feel free to leave me a message and I will get back to you as soon as I am able. Thank you for your call.’

I cried without making a sound.

W
ingsy told me he was taking me to the top floor of the police station, to a ‘quiet office’. I took that to mean I was to be put into isolation. He obviously had strict instructions not to let me anywhere near custody, and I could well imagine that there had been whispered conversations about making me leave the building altogether.

I knew where we were going. The windows moved in their frames when the wind blew hard enough. I reckoned it was built as a tribute to the set of
Prisoner Cell Block
H
. I mounted the nick’s stairs in a state of indifference. From time to time on our short journey to my segregation we passed colleagues in the corridor. While the saner part of my brain knew that those I glided past couldn’t know what the last half-hour had brought me, I concentrated on faded blue carpet tiles rather than their expressions.

The day was getting warmer – the sort of day when I would normally look forward to finishing work on time and sitting in the sunshine, picturing how my garden would look if I could be bothered. I made do with gazing out of the open window on to the yard below, watching patrol cars come and go on the tarmac. The docking area where Jake Lloyd would be taken from the police car to the custody holding area was out of my view. No one was taking any chances with that. I did hear a car pulling into the caged space where prisoners were unloaded before being taken through the gated door for booking in by the custody sergeant. A couple of minutes later, I heard the familiar
sound of Bill’s voice as he took Lloyd towards the metal door of the custody suite.

A noise behind me made me turn as Wingsy nudged the door open with his knee, carrying two mugs of tea.

‘Blimey, Nin, it’s cold in here, girl.’ He put the drinks down and slammed the window. He positioned himself so that I had, out of politeness, to look at him and therefore away from the window when he spoke to me. ‘The DCI’s coming to talk to you in a minute. They just wanted me to check with you. They need a statement and want to know if you’re up to doing it yourself or if you’d like someone you know – or someone you don’t know – to write it for you.’

‘Wankers. Course I can write a poxy statement. I’ve not lost the use of my arms. Sodding cheek.’ I was aware how tightly I was holding the mug of tea.

‘Alright, alright. The thing is, at the moment it’s him sending you a load of photographs but…’ Wingsy looked away, at a poster about forced and arranged marriages and who to contact for help and information. His eyes flitted over it, not really reading it, before looking back at me.

‘But…’ I prompted.

‘The search of his house is taking some time. They’ve found some stuff.’

Eric Nottingham exploded into the room and slammed the door behind him. He picked up a chair with one hand and positioned it directly in front of me. ‘John, I’d like you to stay, but Nina, if you have any problem with – ’

‘No, sir, I’d like him to stay. What do you want to know?’ I saw Wingsy out of the corner of my eye pull up a chair and sit down just to the left of Nottingham.

His first remark surprised me.

‘Know all about you and your sister from the Seventies.’ I wasn’t sure if my face reflected my thoughts or whether he thought that he’d better explain anyway. ‘It’s difficult to keep a thing like that quiet. Not many people do know but, even today, something like that is massive news.’

If this hadn’t been enough to stop me in my tracks, his next declaration certainly was.

‘You’ve a good friend in Stan McGuire,’ said Nottingham, unblinking. ‘We met some years back on an SIOs’ course. We’ve kept in touch. You don’t have to tell me all about your sister.’ He blinked in rapid succession at the word ‘sister’. ‘Just tell us about the photographs and any connection to Jake Lloyd or Scott Headingly.’

‘Never met Jake Lloyd until the other day, and as far as I’m concerned I’ve had no dealings with Scott Headingly at all.’ My mind was attempting to process this information but failing. I tried to recall if I’d ever met anyone called Scott Headingly.

‘You need to go home, Nina. I’m sending someone over to sit – well, to take your statement.’ He’d been about to say ‘someone to sit with you’. I wasn’t sure whether I was worried or really hacked off by this. ‘I’ve thought about using someone from a different division or force so you’re speaking to a stranger, but I decided to opt for Catherine Thomas. Do you have any objections to her?’

Head in my hands, I answered, ‘No.’

As he got to the door, I looked up and took a chance I would get a straight answer. ‘Boss. I have a question.’

He paused, one hand on the doorknob, head turned to look at me.

‘What have they found at Lloyd’s house?’

He broke eye contact at my question and coughed. ‘Early days yet. They’ve not finished looking.’

A
ll the way home, I thought about the photographs I’d received and whether they could in any way be connected with the three murders. I wondered whether the killing would end now, or if another living soul was to be stabbed to death in a frenzy. If that extra horror was to take place, would it be someone who was already a part of the enquiry or a totally unsuspecting victim? That petrifying thought foremost in my mind, I pulled up opposite my home. I was doing little to calm my own nerves. This was the place of sanctuary I’d lived in for seven years and always enjoyed coming back to. I never, ever took chances I was aware of, but I had never felt unsafe in my own home. Not until now.

A search of the house made me feel better but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone in my home. I knew how irrational this thought was. Jake Lloyd was in custody.

Catherine arrived at my door an hour later. I had tried to eat but couldn’t face food just yet. She’d thoughtfully brought a selection of sandwiches with her and insisted on making tea while I sat in the lounge. A few minutes later, she appeared with the sandwiches cut into fours, arranged in a neat row, and two cups of tea, all on a tray.

‘Used to be a waitress, see,’ she boomed, as she looked around for somewhere to put the food. I pulled the coffee table over and she thudded the tray down, spilling the tea. ‘Don’t worry, love, I’m a better detective than I ever was a waitress.’ She laughed and I couldn’t help but join in. I sat with my feet tucked under me and my jumper pulled down
over my knees. It was my favourite one for lounging around the house and had been dragged out of shape over the years.

Two tiny triangles of cheese and pickle later, Catherine had made me smile a few times with tales of her exploits. Seemed like she, too, picked the losers when it came to men. Bill, I felt, was going to be my turning point. That was, if he wanted to stick around after all this. Catherine and I had a bit in common, especially a liking for wine. Her company was making me feel better than I had in days. That and a combination of sitting indoors and resting for a bit. I was struggling to remember the last time I had just sat and watched telly or read a newspaper.

But we both reached the point where we knew that the inevitable couldn’t be put off for much longer and there was a purpose to her visit. I saw her reach into her folder and take out her notebook. She took a deep breath and sat forward in the chair. I tried to get comfortable but it wasn’t happening.

‘You just talk and I’ll write, and we’ll see how we get on.’ Catherine sat with her book open on her lap, arms still on the armrests, pen in her hand.

I looked up at the ceiling and began to verbalise a
five-year
-old’s nightmare.

It was easier not to look at Catherine while I told her about my sister and me. I didn’t expect to see pity or horror on her face but I couldn’t take the chance. I had tried hard not to let what had happened affect my life, and being so young at the time had its advantages. The memories were old and belonged in a child’s head, not that of a woman. As a child, the ghost train was scary. Now it wasn’t. It was simply a matter of putting the whole episode into the ‘cheap fairground’ file in my brain. Then it didn’t occupy my every waking moment, and mercifully I could get on with something resembling a normal life. I had certainly tried my utmost to enjoy myself over the past couple of decades.

When I came to the stuff about the photographs and how I took them to Sandra Beckensale, I looked at Catherine
for the first time in many minutes. My neck was stiff from holding my head at an angle to avoid her dark eyes, and I noticed for the first time the noise of her fountain pen as it scratched its way across the page. I could see she had been writing furiously to keep up with me.

‘You know about as much as I do, Catherine, about the pictures. I couldn’t begin to guess where they’d come from. They spooked me so much because, for them to be taken by one person, he must have followed me for years. I’m guessing that there was more to Jake Lloyd than meets the eye.’

I watched her take that practised pause when she couldn’t or wouldn’t be able to answer. For just a second she glanced down at her notes, and then she met my stare head-on. ‘They’re still searching his house.’ It was the only reply she was able to give.

I believed her. I also understood that she couldn’t tell me what they were looking for or had found. It was quite likely to freak me out and impact on anything else I might have to say. Whatever it was gave me a bad feeling. I could see another bath with a sharp knife for company coming on.

My landline phone rang on the table next to me. I glanced at the display and leapt for it when I saw the number. By this time, my legs had gone numb from sitting on them and I slipped off the edge of the sofa making a grab for the phone, thrashing around a bit in my anxiety to speak to Stan.

‘Hi, Stan. How are you?’ The words in no way reflected what I wanted to say or how I wanted to say them.

‘Hi, Nina. It’s Samantha. He’s doing OK but he’s resting. He wanted me to call you as soon as he came out of theatre. It all went well but he’s probably not up to any more visitors today.’ Stan’s daughter spoke softly, and hesitated before adding, ‘They would only let me in for a few minutes. He didn’t say much, just to call you.’

Despite the pins and needles in both my legs, I managed to twist away from Catherine. She had the good grace to make out as if she was looking through her notes for something but
I could feel the tears returning again. Catherine was probably already thinking I was a bit unhinged; I didn’t want to labour the point.

‘Thanks, Samantha. I really appreciate your call. I’ll be in tomorrow to see him,’ I said, remembering to add, ‘if that’s OK with you.’ I didn’t want to step on her toes but, whatever she said, I was going.

Catherine busied herself writing her notes while I made more tea and prodded the sandwiches to find the least curly-edged of the bunch. My stomach was growling at me. I supposed I felt better now that I knew Stan was out of surgery and on a slow mend. I thought about cracking open a bottle of Chianti; that would definitely complement a round of Coronation chicken. As I reached for the corkscrew, though, I remembered that I was probably still on duty and should leave getting off my face until the DS in the living room had left.

As I walked back to her, I could hear her Welsh accent as she talked in the hallway. Despite her lowered voice, I heard the words ‘shrine in the cellar’.

I was more heavy-handed than usual with the teacups. Catherine looked over towards where I was standing. Her usually smooth forehead wore a frown and her red-lipsticked mouth had formed a tiny ‘O’. She dropped the expression instantly.

Ending the call, Catherine explained that Eric Nottingham was on his way. He wanted to speak to me in person.