Sleep Tight (8 page)

She looked across at Tom, who was exchanging contact details with Robert Brookes, and she couldn’t help comparing the two men again. Tom’s calm and relaxed demeanour somehow accentuated Robert’s nervy behaviour. His fidgeting and constant flicking of the eyes from one person to another without ever making eye contact was disconcerting to put it mildly.

PC Mitchell poked his head around the door and, not wanting to disturb Tom, Becky went to see what he had found.

‘DCI Douglas asked me to check the bins,’ he explained. ‘The waste bin in the kitchen was empty, and appeared to have been cleaned and disinfected, judging by the smell. So I had a look in the dustbin. That was empty too, except for two things. A John Lewis carrier bag, which had nothing in it, and this.’

PC Mitchell unrolled a large sheet of paper and spread it on the kitchen table.

‘I think it used to be on the wall, because the tear in the corner matches the scrap that’s attached to the drawing pin.’

Becky looked at the chart and took out her phone, thinking a few photos might be a good idea.

‘It looks like a schedule of some sort,’ PC Mitchell said.

A schedule of some sort was the understatement. Covering about two metres wide by one high, it was a half-hourly breakdown of each day for the past month, and a blank one for the month ahead.

Becky bent over and peered at it closely. The level of detail was staggering. ‘3.20 pm – going to pick children up from school. 3.40 pm – back from school with the children.’ This was the last entry, and for that very day. Each element of Olivia’s day was mapped on here. Not the children’s timetable – she had noticed there was a separate small blackboard for that, with reminders clipped neatly to the bottom. But this sheet of paper detailed every time Olivia left the house and every time she came back in again. It also listed any phone calls she’d received, however trivial. ‘Phone call at 10.13 am. Wrong number.’ What was
that
all about?

When questioned about his wife’s mental health issues, Robert had implied that they had set up solutions to help Olivia, which would suggest there was a forwards-looking plan she had to follow. This schedule appeared to be written in retrospect – either what she was about to do or what she’d actually
done
, rather than what she
planned
to do. Sometimes there were remarks like ‘Returning to Sainsbury’s – forgot the eggs. Back in 20 minutes’ as if it was a message to somebody. And she’d written on the board today – or yesterday, as it was now well past midnight – that she had returned from school with the children. But the
children hadn’t even
been
to school.

She looked more closely at the chart. Most of the entries used pencil, red pen, blue pen – even children’s crayons. But the entries for the last few days were all in the same pen, and she couldn’t be absolutely sure they were the same handwriting as the previous ones. She needed to get somebody else to look at this. Not that it meant anything. Olivia could have written those entries days ago. As could Robert, for that matter.

12

Saturday

Robert waited fifteen minutes after the house was emptied of bodies with their relentless questioning and the beeping of their mobile phones. He grabbed a bottle of water, his car keys and his wallet, and made his way out of the front door. The security light came on, but the beam wasn’t shining on their drive, as it should have been. It was shining straight across the road into Mrs Preston’s window. It must have been knocked out of alignment somehow, and he could see a shadow standing back from the bedroom window opposite. He knew the light would have alerted his neighbour and she would be watching with interest. Well, no doubt she would get the opportunity to have her say, because he was fairly certain the whole street would be questioned as soon as they were up and about.

He’d planned to leave as quietly as possible, but as the nosey old bat was watching anyway, he revved the car and was about to speed off down the road with a squeal of tyres, just to wind up the silly bitch, when he noticed a car parked further down the road. Not a car that was normally on this street. It didn’t take him long to work out what it was.
Bastard police
. He eased his foot off the accelerator and, with his car emitting the gentle hum of an expensive engine, he slowly and almost silently made his way off the drive. If he was followed, he would just have to have another think.

Much to his amazement, when he reached the long straight road towards the M56 there was nobody behind him. His suspicions must have been wrong. The roads were empty at one o’clock on a Saturday morning, and he would have easily spotted a car tailing him.

He had a couple of hours’ driving ahead of him, but in spite of his exhaustion he felt totally awake. It was an effort, but he forced himself to stay within the speed limit. He wanted no undue attention tonight. He didn’t know how all the systems of the police worked together, but if his name was down on some list of ‘persons of interest’ he didn’t want to be flagged up. It was a rough night, though. Following such a sunny day, a fierce
wind had blown up from nowhere, and the trees were swaying violently from side to side.

An hour and fifty minutes later, courtesy of the total absence of traffic at this ungodly hour, Robert arrived at his destination. At just before three o’clock in the morning it would be entirely inappropriate to ring the doorbell – at least if he wanted to get the right result. This had to be handled well, and he was going to have to bide his time and keep his temper in check. He imagined that people who ran B&Bs had to be up at a reasonable hour to start preparing the guests’ breakfasts, so he would just have to wait. It might have been an impulsive decision to come here in the middle of the night, but he needed to be sure he was the first person to speak to the landlady today.

At this hour of the morning the guest house was in darkness. A wide drive led to the front door of the property, and a single outside lamp created a halo of light around the main entrance. Robert could just make out a number of tall chimney pots silhouetted against the starlit sky, and the white painted window frames standing out from the traditional grey limestone of the building.

He pushed the soft leather seat of his Jaguar XJR into recline and leaned back, closing his eyes. He couldn’t sleep, though. All he could see were vivid images of Olivia – from the moment he met her up until the last time he saw her.

Checking his watch every few minutes, time dragged and he tried to close his mind to all thoughts of his wife. But it was impossible. By five o’clock, his limbs were twitching with inactivity and his emotions had run the gamut from rage to fear. He had to get out of the car.

As he pushed the door open he was hit by the tang of sea air, and he could hear the waves gently lapping on the sand. He turned and looked at the beach, bathed in the early dawn sunlight of a June morning. And he looked again. Something was wrong here, but he didn’t know what it was. He gave himself a mental shake, and set off on his walk, away from the small harbour. He strolled to the far end of the bay and sat on a smooth rock looking out to sea, his thoughts coming in waves to match the ebb and flow of the tide. He had hoped the cool morning breeze would have blown away the cobwebs and allowed him to think rationally about his next move, but he was wrong.

By five thirty he thought he should return to his vigil, and he made his way slowly back to the car as an orange sun began to melt away the shadows.

Finally he saw a chink of light through some closed bedroom curtains. Somebody was awake. Time dragged, and it was a full twenty minutes before he saw the curtains pulled back and the light switched off. He left it a further five minutes before he felt it might be safe to approach the house. He pushed open the car door and closed it quietly behind him.

He walked towards the back of the house where he hoped the kitchen would be. A window was open, and he could hear a radio playing quietly. The presenter announced the
next song. Michael Bublé. He almost smiled. Olivia hated Michael Bublé. She said his music was anodyne. How appropriate for today.

There was a smell of frying bacon – and Robert realised that he had eaten nothing for nearly twenty-four hours. He hadn’t even stopped for lunch on the way home the day before. The idea of food made him feel slightly nauseous, and he swallowed the saliva that threatened to choke him.

He gave three sharp raps on the back door and heard a voice call quietly, ‘Coming,’ with that hint of a warm Welsh accent, and a clatter of pans as if she were moving the frying pan off the hob.

Robert realised that he probably looked like a tramp, with his crumpled shirt and the dark shadow of his unshaven face. Maybe that was a good thing.

The lady who opened the door was exactly as he would have expected. Probably in her early sixties and looking all of her age, she nevertheless had a relaxed expression that said all was well with her world. Her grey hair was cut short in a practical, no-nonsense style, and she wore a too-pink lipstick. She smiled pleasantly, but beneath the smile he could sense a hint of wariness.

‘Good morning,’ she said, maintaining the welcoming air. ‘What can I do for you, dear?’

Robert returned the smile and held out his hand.

‘Mrs Evans, my name is Robert Brookes. Do you think I could come in for a moment? I’d like to talk to you about my wife.’

13

‘
What?
’ Tom Douglas was not given to yelling at people down the phone, but then he’d rarely had people on his team as daft as Ryan Tippetts. ‘Ryan, we waited until you said you were in place before we left. We’ve no idea what’s happened to Olivia Brookes and her children. They could all be dead, or he could be holding them somewhere. We don’t know, so I wanted you to keep eyes on the house in case she came home or he went out. What part of that did you fail to comprehend?’

Tom listened impatiently to Ryan’s explanation, and didn’t believe a word of it. Some rumpus at the end of the road that he had felt obliged to investigate? Not a chance. He was probably asleep. And how come he’d realised only now – hours later – that the Jag was missing from the drive?

‘Yes, I do accept that he could have put the car in the garage, but did it not occur to you to check as soon as you realised it wasn’t visible? We can’t justify formal surveillance on Robert Brookes at this stage, but it’s common sense to let us know if he leaves, isn’t it?’

He listened to more excuses for about ten seconds and then noticed Becky was signalling him from outside the door of his office, clearly with something that she urgently needed to tell him. He’d had enough of DC Tippetts for now.

‘Ryan, watch that house like a hawk – understand? And let me know the minute he gets back, if indeed he
ever
gets back.’ Tom put the phone down carefully. Early in his career he had learned that slamming the phone down did no good to anybody, and the person at the other end heard nothing more than a click, the same as if the phone had been replaced normally. So it was his first step to restoring calm after a frustrating call. He took a deep breath and beckoned Becky to come in.

‘We’ve just heard from the police in Anglesey,’ she said. ‘They got to the guest house, B&B – whatever – at about eight o’clock. They thought it would be early enough, but they were wrong. The landlady had already had a visitor. Robert Brookes was there just after six this morning.’

Shit
. This was all they needed: a suspect in what may or may not be a crime going on the rampage and trampling over potential evidence. He’d crucify Ryan when he got hold of him.

Becky was still hovering just inside the doorway, so Tom signalled her to sit down, glad to see she was looking slightly better today. Perhaps the excitement of a new case had driven out some of her demons, whatever they were.

Becky gave an exasperated shrug. ‘Bloody witnesses. Sometimes I could string them up. The police said that Mrs Evans seemed really uncomfortable talking to them, but she apologised. She said she’d been completely wrong. Robert Brookes hadn’t visited his wife last week. In fact, she’d never met him until this morning.’

‘So why did she tell us he was there, then?’

‘Well, she now says she was probably a bit confused. There had been a visitor one night, and she’d been sure it was Mr Brookes. But perhaps it was one of her other guests who had somebody to stay over for the night. She says she has so many that sometimes she gets muddled.’

Tom thought for a moment. ‘Did the local guys believe her?’

‘I’m not sure they did. They said she seemed flustered and keen to move on. They tried to push her, to find out why she’d changed her story, but she just got upset. She was adamant that she’s never seen Robert Brookes before, though, and that bit they
did
believe.’

‘All a bit too convenient, if you ask me. What did Brookes say to her? Anything significant?’

‘Not really. He asked if he could see the room Olivia had slept in, but when she showed him he just stared at the bed, then walked over to the window and looked out at the beach. She said he was muttering about the colour of the sand, but she didn’t know what he was talking about, because it’s just, well,
sand
coloured. And that was it. Oh, and he kept looking at his watch. He probably realised the local police would be coming round any time soon, because we told him that last night. We don’t know where he is now, though. Very possibly on his way home, or at least, we can hope so. I’ve got somebody checking the cameras, see if we can pick him up on the A55 or the M56, but if we don’t spot him soon we’ll need to widen the net.’

‘Keep me updated on that. I want to talk to Robert Brookes the minute he’s back.’ Tom pushed his frustration to the back of his mind, and leaned back in his chair. ‘What do you make of it all, Becky? Give me your gut reaction.’

Becky shrugged. ‘I think Brookes is as guilty as sin.’

‘Of what, though?’

‘I’m not sure. I keep going back to the fact that he took the children once, so has he done something with them and killed Olivia? There was the whole bit about the kids being taken out of school, which he claims he knew nothing about, and then the schedule we found in the bin. He had no real explanation for that, did he? But he seems to have kept tabs on every move Olivia made.’