Someone To Save you (12 page)

‘Slowly,’ Sam acknowledged.

‘And the memories?’

‘Slower.’

Cullen nodded. ‘You see a lot of terrible things in my job,’ he said. ‘Things that you could never dream up in your worst nightmares. Sometimes it can be difficult to get them out of your head, no matter how hard you try. I expect it’s the same for you, in your line of work.’

‘I’ve seen some things that I’d rather not have,’ Sam admitted. ‘But it’s part of the job, and I knew what I was letting myself in for.’

‘Me too. But it doesn’t make it any easier,’ he said, playing with the top of the lager, running a finger along the rim of the glass.

‘No, it doesn’t,’ Sam agreed.

‘We’ve got something else in common,’ Cullen added. ‘We both lost our sister.’

Sam tensed. ‘You’ve been looking into my history.’

‘Of course,’ Cullen replied, ‘that’s what I do. What happened to your sister was a terrible thing. My sister died when I was fourteen. She was five years old. Died from meningitis. One minute she was there, smiling, playing with her toys. The next she was gone.’

So Paul Cullen did understand what it was like. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ he said, ‘but I still think about her every single day. What she’d look like now, what kind of person she would have grown up to be.’

Cullen seemed to be searching for a reaction, but Sam wasn’t going to oblige. He thought those very same things about Cathy. But he wasn’t going to discuss this with Paul Cullen.

‘I think it was one of the reasons I joined the force,’ Cullen added. ‘I couldn’t help my sister, but I could help other people.’

Again Sam didn’t respond to the bait.

‘Is that why you became a doctor? Because of what happened to your sister?’

‘People always assume that,’ Sam replied. ‘But I’d already decided to apply to medical school, so no, it’s not why I became a doctor.’

Again Sam shut down the possibility for deeper discussion. He wasn’t about to tell him that Cathy had been the one who had finally made up his mind to become a doctor. Not because of her murder, but because of what she had said to him.

‘One day, you’ll be Dr Becker, and you’ll save people. That will be your job – saving people. How cool is that?’

Cullen took another sip of his drink, taking the hint. ‘Fair enough, I don’t want to pry.’

‘It’s okay,’ Sam said, not really believing him – isn’t that what police work was all about; prying? ‘How are the children?’

‘They’re fine,’ Cullen replied. ‘Being taken care of by their grandparents.’

‘There’s no father?’

‘Left a year ago,’ he said. ‘No longer in contact.’

Sam shook his head. ‘And what about the girl, Alison?’

Cullen went to speak, then checked himself. ‘Since we spoke, has anything else come back to you about the accident?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing else that Alison might have said to you?’

‘No.’ Sam scanned Cullen’s face. ‘What’s this about?’

Again, a pause. ‘We got the preliminary results back from the post-mortem. The body was relatively intact, because the train pretty much pushed the car down the tracks, rather than crushed it.’

‘And that’s why the train stayed on the tracks.’

Cullen nodded. ‘Mrs Ainsley hadn’t been drinking. We didn’t find any alcohol in her system. But there were traces of anti-depressants.’

‘Which ones?’

Cullen pulled out a small notebook from his trouser pocket. ‘Neuroxate.’

‘She’d been prescribed those?’

This was potentially highly significant. Neuroxate was one of the stronger anti-depressants on the market. The drug had hit the headlines a few years ago because of an alleged link between its use and increased risk of suicide. Although denied by its manufacturer, hundreds of bereaved families believed their loved ones were now dead because of the drug. Louisa had once counselled the family of a fourteen year old boy who had hanged himself within two weeks of taking those little yellow tablets. She’d described it as the most traumatic case she’d ever dealt with.

‘I spoke with the grandparents, Shirley and Eric Ainsley, this morning,’ he said. ‘They said she’d been depressed for a long time after her husband left, last year. The doctor prescribed them then.’

‘Right.’

‘But they also said that she hadn’t been taking them for a couple of months or so.’

‘Meaning something triggered off her taking them again.’

‘She met a new man, about a month ago. He broke off the relationship the day before the train crash.’

‘Hell,’ Sam said. ‘Have you spoken to him too?’

‘No contact details. Shirley and Eric don’t know where he lives. The mobile number they had for him isn’t working. And the name they’ve given us hasn’t produced any results.’

‘But it sounds like that, plus maybe the effect of the drugs, could explain what happened.’

‘It makes sense. We still consider suicide to be the most likely explanation.’

The most likely explanation? Surely it was clearly suicide. ‘It couldn’t have been an accident.’

Cullen waited for Sam to elaborate.

‘Alison said she drove onto the track deliberately. If it had been an accident she wouldn’t have locked the doors, or had the baby in the boot.’

‘I agree,’ he replied. ‘But we owe it to the family to keep an open mind about this. A verdict of suicide often causes a lot of pain for those that are left behind – guilt especially. I saw it this morning with Shirley and Eric Ainsley. They’re already blaming themselves, thinking that they could have done something to save her.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘So until my team and I have explored every avenue, then we won’t close any doors – even if it does look blindingly obvious to you and me.’

‘Are you going to be able to trace the ex-boyfriend?’

‘Unlikely,’ Cullen admitted. ‘We have the name Vincent McGuire, but like I said, nothing has come up so far, and who’s to say that’s his real name. But we’ll keep looking and asking around the local area.’

‘Of course.’

‘Maybe something will come up – sometimes investigations will lead you to the most unpredictable conclusions.’

‘If there’s any way I can help, then I will.’

‘That’s great. And I appreciate you being able to meet today at such short notice.’

‘No problem.’ Cullen was about to say something, and Sam could tell that whatever the officer was holding back was nearing the surface. He decided to pre-empt him. ‘The development that’s happened, it’s about Alison isn’t it?’

This time the pause was more ominous. ‘I’m going to ask you a question now Sam, and think very carefully before you answer.’

Sam felt his pulse quicken. ‘Go on.’

‘Did you know Jane Ainsley, prior to Sunday evening?’

He hadn’t expected that. ‘What? No, of course not.’

‘So on Sunday evening, that was the first time you ever met Jane Ainsley and her family?’

It felt like a question under caution; the conversation transforming from chat to interrogation.

‘Yes, of course,’ Sam reiterated. ‘I’d never seen her before in my life. What’s this about?’

Cullen leant forward. ‘Last night Shirley Ainsley received a call from Alison. According to Mrs Ainsley, Alison said that her mother’s death was your fault.’

Richard Friedman knelt over the completed jigsaw, staring at the image that now haunted him. He’d used his computer to scan the painting, and had converted it into the wooden puzzle using a company in the high street. It seemed to add another dimension to the creation – the sense of being broken, fractured, was given even more prominence. He planned to frame the thing and hang it on the wall. But now he wasn’t so sure. He stared down at the tortured eyes – it was like a warped mirror, reflecting back his torment.

Torment that she had helped to take away.

He stood up, unsteady on his feet, and almost staggered towards the drawers. He’d taken too many tablets. Pulling out a small jewellery box he flipped open the lid and took a pinch of the auburn hair that lay inside, bringing it up to his cheek. It tickled his skin, the way it had always done. It still smelt of her.

Carefully, hands shaking, he placed the hair back in the box and returned it to the drawer, which was stuffed with memories. Most of which he had never had the strength to delve into.

She had given him that strength.

Offered him comfort and hope.

But now he had ruined it.

He put a hand to his head and broke down, his mouth wide in a child’s silent cry.

Why had he done this? Was it just pure revenge? Whatever, when he got the news, it hadn’t made him feel any better. Instead he felt sick and ashamed.

Twisting off balance, he kicked out at the jigsaw, the pieces shooting around the room as his image shattered.

‘I’m so sorry.’

He’d scared her. Now he wouldn’t be able to see her again, and he would be back to the beginning.

Alone and afraid.

He curled up on the floor, biting on his fist, rocking gently.

‘I’m sorry, Margaret, I’m so sorry.’

The car had come from nowhere, travelling at tremendous speed. The driver, a child of eighteen, was drunk. He’d spent all that morning downing extra strength lager with friends at a barbecue.

‘I couldn’t help you.’

She was in the middle of the crossing when the car hit her doing sixty. He never even braked and his dear wife of twenty years didn’t even have a chance. The force of the impact threw her ten feet into the air. At the trial witnesses likened the noise to that of a small explosion.

She was dead before she hit the ground.

He had seen everything, watching from across the road. She’d stopped to look in a charity shop window and he’d gone off ahead. If only he hadn’t been so impatient. She was smiling at him and by the time he shouted a warning it was too late.

All the paramedics could do was take away her broken body.

Twenty years of happiness gone in a split second.

‘My beautiful Margaret. I miss you so much.’

He dragged himself up from the floor and moved unsteadily towards the kitchen.

The boy was convicted - death by dangerous driving. Yet there were no signs of remorse, and a few times Richard had caught him smirking in the dock, as if he was proud of what he had done. He would serve a few years in prison. The judge had apologised to the family that the maximum available sentence was not longer. In no time the killer would be free while his wife rotted.

That was not justice.

‘It was for the best,’ he muttered. ‘I didn’t do it for myself.’

Reaching the drawer he gazed down at the knife. He picked up the one Margaret used to use to cut the meat. She was a great cook. They’d invite the neighbours around for dinner and everyone would be full of genuine praise at her delicious creations.

He grasped the knife so tight that his knuckles whitened. Richard stared hard at the blade.

This was the only way.

14

Eric Ainsley gulped back the last few drops of his beer and peered into the now empty glass. He’d lost count of how many he’d had in the past couple of hours. Looking around him in the near deserted pub, he briefly thought about going home. He should be with his wife. But Shirley would notice his drunken state in an instant. He could get away with it at night, but not during the daytime.

Still, Shirley needed him.

He looked across to the man who was drinking in the far corner of the bar. He didn’t recognise him, and he wondered for a horrific moment if the drinker was actually one of them – that maybe it wasn’t really all over and his gamble had back-fired. Eric’s eyes flashed back down to the glass as he caught the man’s eye.

If only Shirley knew the truth. She would never forgive him.

Eric hauled himself out of the wooden bench and made for the door. He would take a long walk, try to sober up, and then go home. Then he would put his arms around his wife, hold her, and tell her everything.

Emerging into the blinding sunlight, he turned left and headed down towards the canal.

Jane had killed herself, and it was his fault.

He passed through the old industrial area, with its boarded up windows and deserted alleyways. It was once a thriving place, alive with small businesses, honest local people plying their trades. Here he worked for thirty years as a carpenter in a successful furniture business, and it was here that Eric met his wife to be, who came to work there as an office junior, back in 1967. Those were the days. Finishing work and strolling across to the local pub, arm in arm, talking excitedly about the future, as the Rolling Stones blasted out from the radio. That was before the jobs went abroad and it closed its doors, like so many other companies. Now, during the day the area was an unkempt museum of what used to be, while at night it was the haunt of the area’s prostitutes and kerb crawlers, with any vestige of romanticism now extinguished.