The Missing Hours (12 page)

‘You remember DC Mackay?’ asks Orla. ‘Or … it’s Leah, isn’t it?’

I nod, feeling Selena’s searchlight gaze on me. ‘How are you, Selena?’

She pushes herself up straighter. ‘I’m fine now. Thank you. Is there a problem?’

She is frightened of me. The thought makes me take a step back. I have scared her by coming here like this. I feel a warmth rush through my face.

‘No, no,’ I stammer. ‘I just, I had to rush away this morning. At the hospital,’ I add redundantly. ‘I was driving by and I thought I’d call in. Just to make sure that you were all doing okay. You know, after everything.’ I clamp my lips together hard, attempt to force myself to stop talking.

‘I’ll make tea,’ Orla says.

I try not to stare at Selena, although in truth it is all I want to do. It seems strange to me that she is sitting here beside me, the woman who vanished. Instead, I look around the kitchen. It is clean. Ridiculously clean. I think of mine, weighted down with stray toys, abandoned paperwork, those stains that simply will not come out, no matter how hard I try. I look around and feel a hunger. I want this kitchen. No. Not that. I want this life. I want to be this together, this composed in the face of chaos. I want to be Selena Cole. Apart, I remind myself, from the amnesia. I can live without that.

Orla sets a mug in front of me, pulls up a chair. She still doesn’t relax, though. She sits, curled in it, as though at any moment she will need to pounce. I glance at the children. Tara is muttering quietly, talking to her dolls, but Heather watches me, her eyes tracking my every movement as if she is afraid that at any second I will scoop her mother up, slip her into my handbag and make a break for the door. There is a noise from above, the creaking of footsteps and I look around, suddenly uneasy.

‘That’s Seth,’ Selena says.

I nod. Sip my tea. Burn my tongue. ‘So, ah, they didn’t keep you too long at the hospital, then?’

‘No.’ Selena smiles. ‘They said I was fine. No sign of concussion.’

‘That’s good. And the girls?’ I can see them, two small heads swivelling towards me, meerkats on a sandy dune.

Selena pales a little, her lips compressing into a tight line. Shrugs. Then she sees them watching her and breaks into a smile, the sun emerging from behind a cloud. ‘They’re great, aren’t you, guys?’ She glances at me, a moment of silent communication, down at her tea.

‘So … have you …’

‘Remembered?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I mean, I’ve heard that sometimes memories can come back, you know, given a bit of time.’ I think that I sound like an idiot.

Selena shakes her head. ‘I’m sorry. There’s just nothing.’

Orla folds her arms. ‘I think it was those tablets you were on.’ She looks at me. ‘The psychiatrist prescribed them for her, said they’d be fine. But the thing is, you just don’t know, do you? I mean, cumulatively, these things could have an effect.’

I nod. The Cipramil. Think that I have absolutely no idea whether these things have an effect, cumulatively or not.

‘I’m telling you,’ says Orla, ‘it was the antidepressants. You can’t tell what that kind of medication will do to a person.’

Then the kitchen door opens.

I start, my body reacting to a list of threats my brain hasn’t even considered.

‘Leah,’ says Selena, ‘this is Seth Britten. He’s heading up the Cole Group operations now. He served with Ed in Iraq.’

He nods at me. He is carrying a mobile phone in his hand that he taps repeatedly against his palm. Hair that was once blond shaved down to follow the contours of his scalp; tall, slender. The right side of his face is ridged, furrowed, a mass of scar tissue that runs from his hairline, down past his chin, along his neck and vanishes into the collar of the short-sleeved shirt that he wears in spite of the chill in the air. There is a stain on the collar, dark brown, that looks like aged blood, looks like he has cut himself shaving. My eye falls to his right arm, the skin that protrudes from beneath his shirt a twisted knot of scars that lace from his hand, up past his elbow.

‘Roadside IED. Basra,’ he offers, noticing my look. His accent is Scottish, the burr of it rounded down until it is only just there, barely noticeable beneath the English veneer. ‘I was very lucky to survive. Many didn’t.’ He reaches out his hand to me. ‘You are …’

‘Detective Constable Leah Mackay.’

He nods, folding his arms across his chest. ‘Good to meet you.’

‘Seth has a book coming out. About his experiences in Iraq.’ Selena looks at me, voice low. ‘Well, his and Ed’s.’

Seth shifts, his gaze fixed on me. ‘So,’ he says, ‘is there a problem?’

‘Leah was looking for me,’ Selena says softly. ‘She was kind enough to stop by to check on me.’

He is assessing me, untrusting. ‘Good of you. Very good. Ah, Sel, I just got off the phone with Vince. He’s heading out to Cuernavaca. Castle Electronics lost three men out there.’

‘Again?’ Selena sighs.

‘This is the third time for them,’ says Seth. ‘They’re on a roll.’

‘They’ve been making cutbacks,’ offers Orla. ‘The company is in free fall. Pulling all the “unnecessaries”. In their last quarter, they cancelled all crisis-management training. Trying to save money, I guess.’

‘Well, that’s the problem, right there. Their guys, they forget that it’s a stupid idea to go out and get wasted in some Mexican town. They might as well have “Available for Kidnap” T-shirts made.’ Seth bounces his phone against his hand, shrugs. ‘I guess they’re figuring it out the hard way. I told Vince to call in if he needs anything. Said you had experience with the place, Selena.’

Orla is looking at her husband, frowning. ‘I don’t think Selena should be thinking about business right now.’

Seth catches himself, glances from her to Selena. ‘I’m … I didn’t think. I mean, is that okay? I know, you know, things aren’t great here, but I thought, because you and Ed worked there so much …’

Selena looks down at her lap, pulling in a breath. ‘It’s fine.’

‘Do you good, anyway,’ Seth says brusquely, suddenly confident again. ‘Get you back into it.’

I sit at the table, unnoticed, unnecessary. I need to leave. I don’t know why I came. ‘I have to go. Look, if there’s anything you need, or you remember anything …’

Selena studies me, smiles. ‘I’ll give you a call. Thank you, Leah. I appreciate your efforts.’

A fight to the death?

DS Finn Hale: Wednesday, 12.30 p.m.

I FLOP INTO
my chair. Stare at the blank screen of my computer, my attention caught by my reflection in the empty screen: reddened eyes, darkness of a two-day stubble. Dear God, I’m my father. Someone has taken my face, added thirty years on top.

I swallow some ice-cold coffee, left there from last night, instantly regretting it as it hits my palate. Leah still isn’t back. I glance at her empty chair, then down at my phone. I could call her. Because the last time I tried that, it ended so well.

‘So, anything new?’ Willa’s voice startles me from my deliberations.

‘Huh? No. Why?’

She gives a laugh that is far too loud and far too bright for this day, settling herself on the desk in front of mine. She looks fresh. Downright perky, in fact. I wonder what time she finished last night. Decide that it must have been a damn sight earlier than me.

‘You got the initial forensics back?’ I ask.

She nods. ‘He was killed with a single stab wound to the neck. Wound is consistent with a small knife, kitchen knife, maybe. The amount of blood at the scene, no way the murder happened there, so looks like he was moved. Indications are that he was killed between six and ten p.m.’

‘Any idea of angle of attack?’ I’m trying to picture the scene. Was the killer standing over him? Did they surprise him?

‘PM indicates a direct angle.’ She demonstrates with her fingers. ‘So, if you can imagine, knife goes in in a straight line.’

‘Like whoever did it was the same height? Or similar?’

She shrugs. ‘Could be. Alternatively, they could have been standing on a chair. Or hanging from the ceiling. Or—’

‘Okay, I get it. Any DNA?’

‘Interestingly, yes.’ She grins. ‘Always look to the lover first. Isaac Fletcher’s DNA was found underneath Newell’s fingernails.’

I think of Isaac, digging his fingers into his scalp like he wanted to tear out the news I had given him, that the love of his life wouldn’t be coming home. ‘Could be perfectly legitimate. They lived together. They were a couple.’

Willa shrugs. ‘Could be. We also got a number of hairs, short, dark. No root, though, just the shaft, so only the mitochondrial DNA.’

‘Right,’ I say. Like I have a clue what the hell this means.

She gives me a long look. Waiting.

‘So …’

‘So, nothing. Mitochondrial DNA isn’t compatible with swabs or DNA records. I’m afraid you’re going to have to do this the hard way.’ She pushes herself to her feet. ‘But I’m telling you, love can be murder.’

I watch her walk away, the distant sense that she knows this, that there is a consciousness in her sway.

Love can be murder.

Yeah.

I shake myself, turn the computer on, begin a search of arrest records. Maybe Willa is right. Maybe Isaac’s tears were of the crocodile variety. It wouldn’t be the first time that has happened. But I punch in the name Beck Chambers anyway.

Because the romantic in me doesn’t want it to be Isaac.

I pull my chair closer, study the screen. Nothing, clean as a whistle, before about five years ago. Up until that point, Mr Chambers appears to have led a blameless life. Then, five years ago, something changed. The first arrest was for an assault. A night out with friends. Too much vodka. A word out of place. His ‘friend’ ends up with a broken nose, severe concussion.

I sit there. Thinking. Then raise my voice. ‘Any sign of Beck Chambers yet? Anyone picked him up?’

Christa glances over at me. ‘Still nothing. Everyone’s looking.’ She turns back to her computer, shaking her head. ‘Wherever he is, he’s gone dark.’

I look out the window, like I’ll see him walking past. But no. Just the obligatory pigeon, staring back at me, gaze accusing.

‘What’s he done this time?’

For one deeply disturbing second, I think that the question comes from the pigeon. I start, looking around wildly.

‘You all right, Sarge?’ He is lean as a drainpipe, face scarred with the ghost of acne past. For the life of me I can’t place him, for one beat, two. Then my brain comes back online, my memories shuffling sheepishly back from a talking pigeon.

‘Greg.’ I say it triumphantly and he glances around, expression one of confusion. ‘Sorry. Yes. What?’

He stands to attention, God love him. He’s twenty-three, so new to CID that his suit still has the price sticker on it. Is bubbling over with that barely suppressed thrill of having made it out of uniform alive. He looks at me like I’m a god. I move my chair backwards slightly.

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean … I just, I heard that uniform were on the lookout for Beck Chambers. And then I heard you asking about him. Chambers, I mean.’ He waggles a thin finger at the computer screen, at Chambers’ record. ‘I just thought …’

‘No, it’s fine. It’s fine.’ I gesture at the screen. ‘You know him?’

‘Yes, Sarge. He was brought in on Sunday night. Assault. He’d been drinking in the Aubrey Arms, had a bit of a falling-out with one of the other drinkers. Hit him. Landlord called the police.’

‘You dealt with him?’

‘No, Sarge, not me. I was downstairs dealing with the Larson boys – burglary again. I saw them in custody on Monday morning.’

‘Them?’

‘Beck Chambers and his solicitor.’

‘You mean Dominic Newell?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

‘Dominic Newell, our murder victim?’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

Jesus wept.

‘And you didn’t think …’ I can feel my voice rising, my temper going with it.

Greg looks like a puppy about to be smacked with a newspaper, his fingers tangling themselves together.

Kids.

‘Forget it. What happened? You saw them together, right? Anything stand out to you?’

He has pulled his head back into his shoulders like a turtle under threat. ‘I … I don’t know. I guess I thought they were friends.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just the way they were talking to each other. Didn’t really seem like the way most solicitors and clients talk. They seemed … I don’t know, comfortable, I guess.’

I nod slowly, drum my fingernails against the desktop. Then, in one quick movement, I push my chair backwards, come up to standing. ‘What time was this?’ I ask.

‘Um, I don’t know. Maybe ten? Ten fifteen?’ He’s still standing there like he’s on a parade ground. He also looks like he’s about to cry.

‘Great. Good job.’ I pat him gingerly on the arm. ‘At ease, soldier.’

I hurry through the office, dimly aware of heads turning to follow me as I go, push open the door, down two flights of stairs, my footsteps echoing against the breeze-block walls. The CCTV room is quiet. Cameras cover the station, hitting it at more angles than you would think possible. It is, of course, like so much else here, a patchy system. Some of the cameras work. Others, not so much.

I find the one covering custody, say a brief, deeply hypocritical prayer, then rewind it to Monday, 10 a.m.

I find Greg almost right away, standing patiently, awaiting the custody sergeant’s attention. I half expect to see him put his hand up. I see his gaze shift off camera. Then movement to the left. An elbow, a dark suit. Dominic Newell?

I lean in closer, like that way I will be able to see around corners.

Come on, you bugger.

The elbow vanishes, Greg’s attention returning to the custody sergeant, his face arranging itself into a non-threatening smile.

I sigh heavily. Think for a moment. Then scan the bank of camera angles. There is a feed that covers the front door. Rewind it to 10 a.m. Watch as figures, solicitors, clients, come, go. Then I see the glass door slide open, see Dominic Newell step out into the liquid October sunshine.

Dominic doesn’t walk. He stalks. You can see the anger in him, in the way he holds his shoulders, the way his hands ball into fists. I feel a strange sense of dislocation, like watching an actor playing comedy when you are used to seeing them in tragedy.