Never Forget (5 page)

O
nce again sixty or so officers, plain clothes and uniform, squeezed into the conference room. The air already smelt stale. All the chairs were taken, so again I made my way to the back. It looked like much the same crowd as that morning. It crossed my mind that there should be more people here, but it would have been difficult to get anyone else in the room. As if in answer, the projection screen came to life, showing another conference room at Force Headquarters where a similar packed room of investigators waited. The noise level of conversation increased. Queries on how colleagues had got on with their own pieces of the puzzle were raised in the rank and file while the bosses gathered their notes and took
last-minute
phone calls on mobiles already set to silent mode.

I felt a blast of fresh air and relished the idea of standing near the open window. I made my way over to it just as the meeting was opened. I stood with my back to the blinds swaying in the early evening breeze.

‘Welcome again, ladies and gents,’ said DCI Nottingham. He looked less red in the face than earlier, but just as tired. ‘You will be aware by now that there’s been a second body, found by Nina Foster and John Wing today at 17 Preston Road. He has been identified as Jason Holland, born 23rd March 1978. We know a bit about him. Previous convictions and arrests for theft, burglary, GBH, indecent assault and several warning signs for drugs and child protection. He was last seen four weeks ago on the 25th of August. Reported missing by his long-term partner, Annette Canning.

‘He was found naked and his clothing hasn’t been recovered. It’s early days yet to give you details about the cause of death but I can say that he suffered multiple stab wounds made by a similar weapon or implement to that used on Amanda Bell. We’re linking the two murders, and I’ll give you more details when I have them.’

He went on to describe Holland’s lifestyle and the lives of his close family and friends. None except his other half had seemed too bothered that he had gone missing. They had previously been spoken to and the right questions asked, but few seemed all that troubled by his disappearance. The point was made to the crowded rooms of officers that it didn’t seem as if there was a deliberate lack of co-operation, just that nobody seemed to care.

A noise in the office immediately behind the conference room caught my attention. Making an assumption that the window of the adjoining work space was also open, I craned my neck to try to peep into the next room. Bad timing. It was mine and Wingsy’s turn to take centre stage. As he was nearer the front of the room, he relayed what we had found.

‘Well, at least Nina was kind enough to stand by an open window. You stink to high heaven, John,’ said Simon Patterson, who was two seats away from Wingsy.

A laugh went round the room, followed by a bizarre, slightly later laugh from those in the room at Force Headquarters.

I interjected with one or two points that Wingsy missed but he summed it up concisely. Once we had finished, each member of the team, no matter what their part or rank, contributed what they could to the information being amassed around the murders of Amanda Bell and Jason Holland. I scribbled notes furiously. The room was filled with the scratching of cheap black pens on paper and hastily turned pages of notebooks.

I glanced up at the clock above the DCI’s head. 7.30pm.

B
y the time the briefing had finished and I’d managed to call Stan it was after eight.

‘Stan, it’s me. Really, really sorry but I’ve been held up at work.’

‘Saw it on the news about that woman. What time do you think you’ll be here?’

I had never let Stan down before. I’d always turned up when I said I would, but he’d never asked me to come over, either. For the first time in over thirty years he was asking me for something, and he sounded desperate to see me. It made me feel uneasy. Well, to be honest, it made me feel grown-up. With being grown-up came responsibilities. I hesitated only for a second. ‘It may be a couple more hours. Will that be OK?’ I asked.

‘If you’re not finished by midnight, give me a call.’ It was Stan’s turn to hesitate. ‘Nin, I have worked on murders, you know. I’m well aware of the hours you put in.’

With the last two sentences, I detected some of the old, tough DCI McGuire. His voice had sounded tired up until that point. No, not tired – resigned.

One thing was clear, though: he wanted me at his house no matter what the time of night, and I was anxious to go. Only Stan could make me feel like that – usually I’d be glad of a bit of overtime, as I was always short of money. My salary wasn’t bad, but there never seemed to be enough once the essentials were paid for. And, of course, I ordered in my wine by the case. This was a costly outlay but cheaper in the
long run and it meant I never ran out. I could do with a glass just about now.

Still standing with my phone in my hand, mulling over what was up with Stan, I saw Wingsy come towards me, with another man I’d seen at the briefing.

‘Nina, this is Pierre,’ said Wingsy.

Did we have an exchange programme running?

Pierre held out his hand and said in an accent similar to mine, ‘Hello, Nina. We get to work together tomorrow.’

I shook his hand and said, ‘Hello, Pierre. I thought that you were going to be F– ’

‘French – yes, I know. Get that all the time. Parents just had a sense of humour.’

I turned back to Wingsy. ‘Where are you tomorrow, pal?’

‘Crown Court. Last minute. But I may be back by lunch.’

Pierre was starting to walk away. ‘Nina,’ he said, ‘I’ve got your number. See you after the morning briefing and we’ll sort out a plan for the day.’ He waved over his shoulder as he disappeared into a crowd of lively detectives.

I focused my attention on Wingsy. ‘Why him?’

‘Single.’

‘Nice one.’ Pierre was a bit easy on the eye, I had to admit. Good-looking, and I had got close enough shaking his hand to notice that even twelve hours into a shift he still carried a trace of aftershave and not sweat.

‘Got a spare pen, Nina?’ Winsgy asked. ‘Wrote so much my pen ran out.’

I had a quick look in my handbag. ‘No. The only spare I’ve got is blue. There’s a stationery cupboard in the next office; we’ll get a couple from there.’ I hadn’t said anything to him about the noise I’d heard from the adjoining room but I wanted to have a look in case anyone was still working in there. It had slipped my mind up until now.

The typing room contained six desks, all with computers and empty chairs. The windows were closed but the one nearest to the conference room was only inches from the
adjoining wall. This was a working nick; the building was never empty at any time of the day or night so the fact that someone might have been in the room was hardly unusual. I wondered if someone had been at the window, and could have been listening to the details of the briefing. But I was finding it difficult to comprehend why someone with access to a police station would want to listen at windows. Perhaps I was just tired and had my mind on other things. This was my seventh day on duty.

As Wingsy and I searched for pens in the typists’ store cupboard, I said, ‘Funny, you know, I thought I heard someone in here earlier during the briefing, Wingsy.’

‘Probably just late-turn patrols raiding the stationery cupboard,’ he said as he helped himself to three biros, a notepad and a box of paperclips.

I still wasn’t totally convinced, but my friend had put my mind at rest for the time being.

I
pulled up outside Stan’s house. It was a beautiful place. He loved his garden and, even at this time of year, hundreds of pink roses spilled across the porch roof. The scent hung all around me as I rang the doorbell.

On the way over I’d tried to work out what he might be about to tell me, but I’d been a coward and put it out of my mind. I’d rather face it head-on.

A light went on in the hallway and I heard footsteps coming towards me. Same footsteps as all those years ago; totally different circumstances. But this time felt just as terrifying, only now I had a frame of reference for it.

The door opened on an ashen-faced Stan. I dropped my handbag on the porch and put my arms around his waist. Stan started to cry. The tears were silent. He shook slightly as he tried to hold it together. After a minute he pulled away from me and said, ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ That was another surprise; he’d usually uncorked a good red well ahead of my arrival. I followed him through the hallway along its plush, heavy carpet, to his vast kitchen. I watched him walk over to the range and busy himself with tea, coffee, chocolate, sugar, sweetener. He fussed over arranging the mugs on a tray. I sat at the table. I’d deliberately chosen one of the chairs closest to the range – didn’t want to put any distance between us. As a retired police officer, Stan was bound to pick up on that, but I thought that he would appreciate the gesture.

I waited for him to speak again.

‘Sugar?’ he asked.

I had never taken sugar and he knew it. I didn’t answer. I waited for him to look in my direction. When he turned around to look at me, I simply shook my head. He didn’t meet my eyes.

At last, he brought the tray and the superfluous sugar. He sat next to me on the corner so we faced each other but at an angle, not head-on. Less confrontational that way, just as we’d been taught over the years in interview training.

Stan placed his hands palms-down on the table, took a deep breath, and said, ‘I have prostate cancer.’

I was out of my seat with my arms around him before I realised I’d done it. It was my turn to cry. I really tried not to. It wouldn’t help Stan, it wasn’t about me, it was about him, but what would I do without him? He hadn’t just rescued me, he’d set me on a course for the rest of my life. I had a career, I had friends, a pension, a purpose. No Stan, no purpose. I had so many questions but I knew the answers might not be the ones I wanted. My mind was racing. Stan would not have been so insistent that I come over so late at night if this wasn’t serious. Other than his face being pale, though, he looked just the same. I couldn’t comprehend that he had cancer.

‘Now, Nina. It’s not that bad, you know. I need to have surgery and quite soon.’

‘When?’ I managed to say as I broke away from him. ‘Need a drink, Stan.’ I looked around at the wine rack built in to the dresser in the corner.

He got up and selected a bottle, taking an age to study the label. Just pour it, I wanted to scream.

Now that Stan had something to occupy his hands again, he seemed more comfortable talking about it. I let him carry on, as it calmed us both. Or it would calm me once he opened the bloody bottle.

‘Next week,’ he said. ‘I have what they call “locally advanced prostate cancer”. That means that the cancer has spread outside the prostate but not anywhere else. Surgery
should remove it, but there is the option of radiotherapy afterwards.’

Stan continued to tell me how he’d come to get tested, avoiding my eye when it came close to revealing anything too personal. He was my friend but still a bloke I respected, and some things really weren’t for sharing. We talked about the options open to him, how long he’d known, what Samantha’s reaction had been.

‘Who was that woman who answered the phone earlier?’ I asked.

‘Deirdre. She lost her husband to prostate cancer and runs some sort of support group. She came round to see if she could help in any way.’

I grinned at him. ‘You dirty old git.’

‘Language, Nina.’

A
nother hangover, another day at work. I’d stayed at Stan’s until the early hours and, although while there I’d only had a couple of glasses of wine, I’d gone home and drowned my sorrows. It wasn’t just the alcohol, it was the lack of sleep, and this was day eight on duty. I was already tired when I got to work.

I sat through that morning’s briefing taking in all the information we had so far on the murders of Amanda Bell and Jason Holland, but distracted by the previous evening’s events and the dull thud in the left side of my head. I didn’t have much to add. The enquiries Wingsy and I had finished before we’d gone home yesterday hadn’t moved matters on at all. Other colleagues had more important and relevant information to impart. I listened and made notes. An update was given on David Connor, who was being charged after the briefing with football-related GBH, plus possession of a few offensive weapons, but bailed regarding Operation Guard. It seemed we hadn’t amassed enough evidence on him. The scale of work in store for the team was breathtaking.

An hour and a half later, when the briefing finished, there was the usual stampede for the toilets and tea machine. I found Pierre coming out of the kitchen with two mugs of tea.

‘Made you one,’ he said, handing me the cup. ‘There’s no sugar in it.’

‘Thanks. That’s good of you,’ I said, thinking that he was pretty thoughtful as well as decent-looking. I hoped that my eyes weren’t still bloodshot; that might put him off.

We took our drinks to a couple of spare computers in the middle of the Incident Room. The position was hardly ideal, but the room was full of DCs and DSs trying to gather their paperwork and sort out the logistics of their day.

Pierre told me a bit about himself and how long he’d been on the squad. He made me laugh a few times and I had to check myself to make sure I wasn’t doing my over-the-top giggling. I didn’t want to look like an idiot or far too keen. While we were chatting, Pierre passed me names and addresses to enter into the system so that we could research our witnesses for the day. Once we were armed with everything we needed, we gathered up our files and equipment and went in search of a car. That was our first stumbling block. Forty minutes later, having negotiated some keys from someone else, we made our way to the yard and found our newly allocated car for the day.

Our first visit was to see a woman called Josie Newman. She was an old friend of Amanda Bell’s and lived about eight miles away from the nick. Pierre drove and I did a recap of what we had been able to find out about her. ‘She lives with her mum and there’s a suggestion that they were once a mother-and-daughter prostitute team. Previous for drugs, which would figure due to the prostitution. Nothing much else on them, though.’

We decided which of us would speak to the mum in case they were both at home, and ran over what we wanted to ask. With that out of the way, I started to pry into Pierre’s private life. I thought I’d try a subtle approach to begin with, revving it up if the need arose.

‘Had a bit of a late one last night,’ I said as casually as possible.

‘Oh, yeah. Did you go anywhere good?’ he asked, glancing over at me.

‘A very old friend needed a visit. It was great to see him but I stayed longer than I intended to.’ Why had I said that?

‘Lucky you, Nina,’ came the reply.

‘Oh, no. No, he really is an old friend. And he’s old. Very old. We were just catching up. What about you? Did you get up to much last night or did you have a late finish at work?’

‘I left at about eleven. Just went home and tried to get some sleep. It’s going to be a very long couple of weeks.’

‘Yeah. As great as it is to have a few extra quid at the end of the month, right now sleep seems more important.’

We were nearly at our destination and I still hadn’t confirmed if he was single. I must be slipping. Eight miles used to be plenty to get a feel for a man.

At the address, Pierre walked beside me to the front door. I could smell his aftershave. He knocked and we waited. A woman in her mid-sixties came to the door. She was wearing a green velvet dressing gown tied with a gold cord, red lipstick on her lips bleeding on to her face, and a jet-black wig, which was wonky on her head.

Pierre said, ‘Mrs Newman? Police.’ We both showed our identification.

She didn’t look down at the warrant cards, but walked back along the hallway, saying, ‘Come in, come in.’

Pierre and I looked at each other and followed her inside. I noticed that on her left foot was a red slipper and on her right a green one. We hastened after her into the lounge, a pleasant if musty room. So far, she didn’t seem too bothered about why there were two police officers in her house, but that could have been because she was crazy. As a police officer I wasn’t qualified to make a medical or psychological diagnosis, but I wasn’t about to turn my back to her.

She indicated that we sit on the sofa opposite the armchair she had just taken.

‘Thank you,’ said Pierre as we sat down. ‘Can I just confirm that you are Mrs Newman, Josie Newman’s mother?’

‘Yes,’ she answered with a nod. The wig inched forward. ‘I’m Susan Newman.’

‘Is Josie here?’ asked Pierre.

‘No, she’s not. She lives abroad now.’ Susan was sitting upright in the chair, leaning back against the headrest. ‘She had to get away once little Josh died, things were so bad for her. She went to France with a boyfriend.’

‘Josh…?’ said Pierre.

‘Her son, my grandson. He fell into the fishpond in the garden when he was two. He was only out of our sight for a minute.’ Her mouth dropped as she said this, accentuated all the more by the lipstick. I’d found the Baby Jane impression pretty hilarious at the front door. It didn’t seem so funny now.

Pierre and I persevered with our questions but after half an hour we weren’t really sure that we were getting anywhere. Taking contact details for Josie and giving her our cards, we got up to leave.

Susan stood up too. Her wig remained in the chair. It must have been caught on the chair-back cover. She didn’t seem to notice and we were too embarrassed to say anything. Her head was almost entirely bald. Just a few white, wispy strands remained.

As we walked back along the hallway, she said, ‘Pierre Rainer. Are you French?’

We looked round at her and saw she was holding our business cards, one in each hand.

Pierre winked at me. ‘Yes, Mrs Newman, I am.’

‘Thought so. You have that garlic look about you.’