Never Forget (24 page)

H
omeward bound, I called Ray and gave him a summary of the interview with Mrs Makepeace.

‘Also,’ I said, ‘any update from Wingsy’s interview with Birdsall?’

‘He’s denying it, in a nutshell. Says he has alibis for two of the murders, including being out of the country for Amanda Bell’s. His passport’s been checked and it would appear that he was in southern Spain.’

‘And the curtain suspension wires?’ I asked. Laura looked over at me. I’d not told her about the wires. It had slipped my mind.

‘We’ve had them examined and they’re possibly from the same batch of wire but the ends have been compared and we don’t have a mechanical fit. In other words, inconclusive.’

‘Bollocks,’ I said, ‘Thought I had something there.’

‘Right, then. I’ll see you girls at 8am for a briefing. Drive carefully.’

I needed to fill Laura in on my theory, albeit one that hadn’t been any help.

‘When me and Wingsy found Jason Holland’s body in that house, the whole place was empty, apart from the net curtains hanging at the windows.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, all of them were droopy, as if they’d been there for years. All of them, except the one in the room where the body was.’

‘Yeah, I follow you so far, Nin.’

‘The day that me and Wingsy first went round to Belinda’s house, she had just hung some new curtains. We figured that a man put them up.’

‘Why?’

‘A woman would probably have cleared the mess up. Men are too busy arsing about with power tools.’

‘And there was brick dust on the floor, so it must have been a man. I’m totally with you on the mess part, but it doesn’t make Tony Birdsall a serial killer because he won’t hoover. Half the fellas in the country would be banged up.’

‘Yeah, but it was a good theory. And it still doesn’t explain why someone would rehang a curtain when they’ve just dumped a body. Only reason I can think of is the curtain came down in the struggle and the killer rehung it to stop the neighbours from noticing anything odd. Anyway, as you heard, the ends have been examined and there’s no mechanical fit between them. Doesn’t mean it didn’t come from the same batch of wire, though.’

We carried along in silence for a couple of minutes until Laura said, ‘Two ideas. One, we stop to eat, and two, after that, you drive. I’ll start reading the file from Social Services.’

The prepacked sandwiches on the motorway held no surprise – they were terrible. The file, however, was a different matter.

Laura leaned towards the box on the back seat from time to time, grabbed more papers and read the odd passage out to me. Now and again we’d both comment but she pretty much summarised the documents with practised efficiency. The journey was starting to get to me. Several times Laura was talking and I wasn’t concentrating. Wasn’t even listening.

Forcing myself to pay attention to the road, I found I could only do so by naming each of the three lanes either Adam Spencer, Tony Birdsall or Benjamin Makepeace. Each time I switched to another, fresh thoughts flooded my mind about the part each of them could be playing in this most horrific of
crimes – murder. There was no coming back from the dead. The rules were simple: you ceased to be, and everything you left in your wake would never be the same again.

‘This is Benjamin Makepeace’s birth certificate. It says that his mother is Maureen Makepeace, same as our woman back there. But it says “father unknown”. Bit odd, no?’

She laid the birth certificate on her lap, turning in the seat to look at me.

‘You’re right. Mrs Makepeace said her husband was killed by a drunk driver. She didn’t say “Benjamin’s father”. Have you found anything in there to show that he was adopted, or documents in another name?’ I asked, glancing over at the stack of paperwork next to her feet in the footwell.

‘No, I haven’t, and I don’t see why she wouldn’t have told us,’ said Laura. ‘I’ll call West Mids and get them to ask her.’

Desperate as I was to read some of the documents myself, in truth, Laura’s grabbing of random documents from the box was starting to grate on my nerves.

‘Lol,’ I said when I could take no more, ‘is there any chance you can stop doing that? It’s like a really, really shit lucky dip.’

She obliged.

‘I don’t get it,’ I said, slowing down due to sudden inexplicable queues in all three of lanes Spencer, Birdsall and Makepeace. ‘It was a children’s home, not a daycare centre. You can’t book your child in and out of one, simply because he’s been out late with his mates or thrown stones at the neighbour’s greenhouse. There must be more to it. I’m hoping the answers are in that box.’

‘If they’re not, the only other person who may be able to tell us is Benjamin Makepeace himself.’

We couldn’t drive all the way back without several phone calls to Ray and Catherine. Both were working on various aspects of the investigation that Laura and I wanted updating on. We were police officers at the end of the day. Nosy creatures. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by me that Laura seemed
very keen to make the calls to Ray. Often I read too much into situations, but I thought that Laura might have taken a liking to him. He seemed a bit of a fool but fundamentally decent. In my opinion she could do better, but you couldn’t choose your mates’ boyfriends. That in itself was lucky, ’cos undoubtedly I would have chosen her a total tosser if my track record was anything to go by.

Ray told us that Tony Birdsall was talking but still denying any involvement. He seemed to be giving checkable facts, causing a stream of detectives to run around southeast England, parts of London and a couple of airports. Belinda Cook had sworn her way through a day with Mark Russell and Pierre while they took a statement from her. Lucky fellas.

Several hours later, we finally got back to the nick, parked and carried the paperwork up to the empty Incident Room, ready to head for home. I couldn’t speak for Laura but I’d developed a headache on the M25 and it was only going to get worse. A glass of something chilled would kill or cure it. Temporary panic gripped me as I couldn’t recall whether I’d drunk the last of the Sauvignon Blanc from the fridge. I calmed down when I remembered there were two more bottles behind the out-of-date coleslaw and potato salad.

We were both very weary but glad to be back. A large note on the office diary informed us that the next briefing would be at nine in the morning, rather than 8am as Ray had told us. We’d already updated the team, but no doubt there would be more from the rest of them.

Laura shivered as we walked back out of the Incident Room. ‘It’s cold in here,’ she said, touching the corridor radiator as we approached it. ‘Heating’s not on.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘we didn’t ask about Alf. If his son’s going to get nicked for three murders, it’s hardly likely that he’ll be allowed to wander around a nick that’s full of evidence against his own boy.’ I felt bad. I liked Alf. Whatever his son had or hadn’t done, I couldn’t see Alf having anything to do with it.

‘God, yeah,’ agreed Laura, ‘Alf probably won’t be here. Hope he’s OK. They would have looked after him, wouldn’t they?’

‘I don’t know, Lol. Really hope so, mate. He’s worked here longer than we have. He retires in a few weeks.’

‘I bet he’s going to miss it,’ she said. ‘Working, I mean. I’d always find it funny when he’d come into an office and open and shut all the windows looking for something to fix.’

This made me feel even worse about the accusations I’d made earlier, suspecting Alf of listening at windows.

We chatted as we walked down the stairs, curiosity taking us past Alf’s office. It was locked, though we’d expected nothing more. My final thought for the working day as we wandered towards the car park was that Alf’s retirement to Spain supping on San Miguel was looking to be in jeopardy.

L
aura and I said goodbye in the car park, dragging our overnight bags to our respective cars. The car park was deserted but well lit. I unlocked my car, activating the button to remotely pop the boot. At least putting my case in there meant that I could check the space. Really, I was too tired for all that. Caution was exhausting.

I heard Laura’s case as she dropped it into her car. By the time she was about to drive away, for some inexplicable reason I had an urge to stop her. That feeling I sometimes got kicked in, the one that urged me to take stock, slow myself down, trust my instinct. The worst that could happen was that I was wrong.

I ran towards her car as she drove past my parking spot. She had already put her hand up to wave at me but stopped as she saw me bolt in her direction. She braked and opened the window, concern on her face. ‘You OK, Nin?’ she asked.

Bollocks: now I felt stupid.

‘Oh, yeah, just wanted to say, that – er – thanks again for coming with me. Appreciate the company.’ How feeble was that?

‘OK. Thought you were going to tell me something major then. Well, sleep well and see you in the morning.’

I stepped back to let her drive off. I’d achieved my aim: there was no one on her back seat.

I checked my own before getting in and heading home.

The streets were quiet. The temperature had dropped somewhat, and a chilly midweek evening with the threat of
rain was enough to encourage most people to stay at home. Even the traffic was light as I drove from the nick out of town towards home, mulling over the events of the last couple of days. I opted for the shortcut through the industrial estates, a favourite route at peak times, but my decision was based entirely on speed. I wanted to get home.

As I pulled into my road, I wondered whether I was going to find a parking space anywhere near my front door. My only regret when I’d bought my house had been that it had no driveway or garage, causing a problem whenever I came home with shopping or suitcases.

I managed to find a spot on the opposite side of the road, about four houses down from mine. I turned the ignition and lights off and sat in the dark pondering whether I should take my case in now or come back out for it. The rain made my mind up for me. As I sat there, I watched two or three spots fall on to the windscreen, making me jump out of the driver’s seat, grab my handbag from the seat beside me and run to the boot. I tried to locate my house keys with one hand as I lugged the case out by its handle, slamming the lid shut all in under five seconds. I hauled the case across the road to the pavement, locking the car and activating the alarm with the key fob as I went. The rain was now starting to come down harder. I felt pretty pleased with myself, as I was now at my next-door neighbour’s gate with my luggage and without getting soaked. Possibly at this stage my hair hadn’t even started to curl.

I opened my gate, running an eye over the front of the house. It looked exactly the way I’d left it. I took a couple of steps towards my front door and stopped.

Something wasn’t right.

I heaved my case to my right-hand side, as far off the path as I could. That gave me enough room to go backwards or forwards in a hurry. I couldn’t hear anything but I couldn’t see much either. That was the problem. The security light wasn’t working. It should come on when anyone or anything
came this far along the path. It had been working when I’d left.

And, when I’d left, the glass casing housing the light hadn’t been smashed all over the steps leading up to the house, either.

The rain was coming down now. I was getting soaked to the skin. Neighbours with more sense than me were indoors. I glanced up and down the street. Nothing stirred.

My options were either to go into my house on my own, call someone and go in with them, or simply leave. I couldn’t call anyone without sounding deranged and I didn’t fancy the Premier Inn, even though it was a huge improvement on Tartan Towers. I decided I would go in armed with my keys and a can of hairspray. If I had to spray it in anyone’s eyes, I’d just tell the patrol it had been in my pocket when I went through the door. I hadn’t armed myself with it, merely used what was to hand to defend myself. They were bound to believe me. Probably.

I made my way, now drenched through, up the steps, avoiding the broken glass. I put my key in the door as quietly as I could, fumbled in my handbag for my mobile and travel hairspray. I unlocked my phone, dialled 99 and gave the can a good shake. Then delayed reaction to what I was about to do hit me full on. This was madness. I was about to do a very stupid thing. I’d been stalked, possibly had my house broken into by Lloyd and I was working on a series of unsolved murders.

I took my key back out of the lock and backed down the steps. Moving my case as far out of the rain as I could, I headed back to the car, calling Bill as I crossed the road. I felt a surge of relief on hearing his voice as he answered.

‘Hi, hon. Are you home?’ he asked.

Soaked to the skin, I got into the car and slammed the door. ‘Hey, Bill. Would you be able to come over?’

Immediate concern ran through his voice. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Probably nothing, but I’ve just got home from Birmingham and the security light’s smashed.’

‘You in the house?’

‘No. I’m in the car – ’

‘Good – stay there. I’ll be five minutes. Lock the door.’

The siren on his police car sounded in my ear, just before he hung up. He arrived in less than three minutes. His marked vehicle pulled up outside my house, blocking the pavement. I was glad he’d turned the siren off before getting to my road.

I got out of the car to join him, leaving the hairspray behind. I put my door key into his outstretched hand, pausing to smile at him, and added, ‘Thanks.’

I followed him back down the pathway. In the swiftest of movements, he turned the key, pushed the door and shouted, ‘Hello. Police. Let’s not mess about.’

Silence. I couldn’t tell if anyone was in the house, but no noise or movement greeted us. I decided to leave the front door open, and stood still as Bill ran straight upstairs. I saw his right hand move towards his baton. I stood motionless but my heart was still pounding. I could hear him going from room to room. He ran back downstairs. He went to the kitchen next, then into the living room.

‘Nina, did you leave the television on?’ he shouted from the front room.

One thing was for sure: I had been right to worry. I definitely had not left the television on. As I joined Bill in the living room, I saw something else that was out of place. I had not left the DVD interview of Jake Lloyd on the coffee table either. At the same instant that I clocked the out-of-place DVD, another sense registered – an unpleasant musty aroma. Like something was festering in my living room.

Hands shaking, I picked up the DVD and slid it under a magazine. No need to let Bill know I had it. He was looking at the television set. ‘If you didn’t leave the telly on, we should get a CSI here to take prints,’ he said, about to transmit a message on his personal radio.

‘I can’t remember, Bill, to tell you the truth. I may have done. I’ve had a lot on my mind. Besides, after Lloyd getting nicked, a CSI was supposed to be coming to dust for prints anyway but I’ve not been here to let them in. Can you wait here while I have a look under the beds, in wardrobes, that kind of thing? I’ll sleep better if I do.’

‘Nina, I’m off in two hours. I’ll come back and stay the night in your spare room if you want me to.’

I ran an eye over him. That was a very tempting offer, I’d be a fool to turn that one down, but I didn’t want to look needy.

‘Thanks, but really, don’t worry. I’m overreacting. Been a bit jumpy, that’s all. But thank you.’ I managed to smile at him as I walked him to the front door.

‘I’ll go and do a more thorough check upstairs while you get your case in,’ said Bill.

I tried to get myself together. The front door was still open and my case was probably waterlogged by now. I went back down the steps to get it. As I did, car headlights came on to my right. I heard the noise of the engine as the car pulled away at speed. I couldn’t see the make, model or even the colour. Maybe it had nothing to do with me. I stood in the rain watching it make its rapid departure before lugging my drenched case into the house.

By the time Bill descended the stairs again, I’d unzipped the soggy case and was in the process of carrying the contents to the washing machine. He touched my shoulder, acting as though he was about to kiss me, but then changed his mind, saying, ‘Lock the door when I’m gone. I’ll call you later.’ His radio came to life as he walked away from the house, sending him off to another call.

As I carried on unpacking, I mulled over whether it was my imagination or whether I really had left the television on. I was pretty sure I hadn’t left a DVD on show that I wasn’t supposed to have. There were no signs of forced entry anywhere; nothing was missing and nothing damaged. I’d
checked the front and back doors twice after Bill left. I’d stopped short of going out into the garden, but I closed the kitchen blinds for the first time in months so the darkness of the woods couldn’t reach me.

My phone rang, jolting me back to reality. It was Bill.

‘Hey. Only calling while I can to make sure that everything’s OK. I’m probably not going to finish till a bit later than I thought. Some bloke’s threatening to throw himself off the multi-storey car park in Woodford. The world and his wife are here.’

‘Sounds like you’re busy, then.’

‘Yeah. We’re waiting for the on-call negotiator to arrive. It’s Kim Cotton. Do you know her?’

‘Yeah, I do. Poor bastard’s likely to jump when that miserable cow starts talking to him.’

‘Sorry, Nin, I’ve got to go.’

‘See you later, Bill.’

‘You too, sweetheart.’

I put the phone down and picked the corkscrew up. I’d decided to wait up for Bill to speak to him before I went to sleep. I already had bags under my eyes from Tartan Towers; another hour or two wouldn’t hurt.