The Truth Will Out (16 page)

She opened the window and drank the fresh air. A strong smell of pine trees flushed her airways. Gradually the mist in her head started to clear. Right now she needed to get as far away from here as possible. Once again, she was on the run.

***

Helen stood on the pavement outside Eva’s house and peeled the latex gloves from her hands before she answered the call.

Pemberton didn’t introduce himself, “Ma’am, I’ve good news and bad news.”

She looked up. The clouds had thickened in the sky, plugging any hope of sun in Hampton for the rest of the day. “I’ll take the good news first.”

“We’ve located the friend.”

Helen felt a frisson of excitement. “Where is she?”

“At her parents’ bungalow in Scotland. A small village called Kinlochard, an hour north of Glasgow. Local police are there now.”

“Is she with them?”

“Not yet, looks like she’s gone out. But they’ve looked through the windows and can see clothes and personal items, so they’re just waiting for her to return.”

“Brilliant! How did you find her?”

Pemberton described how a local Kinlochard girl named Millie Buchanan was a friend of Eva’s on Facebook. Millie had seen the appeal that morning and alerted her grandmother who contacted Strathclyde police.

“Okay, what’s the bad news?”

“The news delayed us slightly,” Pemberton said. “We’ve only just arrived at Jules Paton’s house for the search.”

“What’s up, Sean?”

“Jules Paton has committed suicide. His body was found by his neighbour this morning.”

Helen started. “Where’s the body?”

“In the garage, hanging from the rafters. And you’ll never guess who’s here.”

***

Back in her office, Helen stared at the photos of Jules Paton’s body hanging from the central rafter in his garage. He was tall, about six foot two she guessed, and thin. A white shirt covered his torso over pale denims coated in faeces. The colour had drained out of his face leaving a pale grey tinge. His eyes hung open, dry and desperate.

She clicked to another photo, taken from a different angle. In the corner of the still she could see a kitchen chair on its side beneath the body. Hanging was one of the most common forms of suicide. A feeling of sadness washed over her. Suicides always left her feeling hollow.

Having just come from Eva’s house, Helen couldn’t attend Jules Paton’s house in person. Everything about the scene, complete with note of admission, smacked of suicide. But Eva was still missing. If she was involved, or worked with Jules on Naomi’s murder, CSI may find forensic evidence at the scene, in the garage, nearby, indicating her presence. The last thing she needed was a defence barrister arguing that hairs and fibres belonging to Eva had been transferred by Helen or her team that morning.

At times like this, Helen was grateful for the expertise of Pemberton. They thought the same way, adopted the same hands-on approach to policing. As soon as she’d processed his call earlier, she’d set him into action; tasked him to go through the scene with a fine-toothed comb, note everything, however insignificant it may initially appear. He took photos of the garage, then recorded the scene on his mobile phone and emailed her the footage. The CSI photographs would eventually be available, but Helen wanted to see the scene through Pemberton’s eyes. It was the next best thing to being there herself.

Helen looked past the body in the photo. Cardboard boxes were stacked in the corner, a wooden workbench down the side, cluttered with various tools and garden accessories; a lawn mower and edge cutters leant against the far wall alongside a metal stepladder. There was a hole at the bottom of the door where the wood had rotted. This is where it was suspected that the cat crawled in. The cat that drew the neighbour’s attention to Jules’ dead body.

The footage continued into the house. A single piece of paper rested on the kitchen table. The suicide note.

SO SORRY FOR WHAT I’VE DONE.

NAOMI DIDN’T DESERVE THAT.

IT WAS THE DRUGS TALKING.

I CAN’T LIVE WITH MYSELF.

She stared at it awhile then pressed play and moved on. The front room looked as if it had been preserved in a museum, completely untouched. A stash of post still sat by the front door. She scanned through until she got to Jules’ bedroom. A black leather jacket rested across a pine rocking chair. The camera zoomed in on the label,
Toujours,
and on the area that should have housed the second button up from the bottom, which was missing. He’d photographed a Baikal handgun, encased in a clear evidence bag, recovered from beneath the bed.

Earlier, Pemberton explained that when he arrived at Jules Paton’s house that morning, he’d been surprised to find CSI crawling over the property. He immediately phoned the control room inspector who told him they’d taken a call at ten thirty that morning from Jenny Wilson, reporting the discovery of Jules’ body. When he asked them why his team wasn’t informed, the inspector was sheepish. The controller had missed the markers on Jules Paton and Operation Aspen, and referred it to local CID.

Pemberton later discovered that Inspector Fitzpatrick’s team had seen the log and offered to deal, as Paton was linked to their enquiry. The duty detective sergeant was only too happy to oblige. With a major affray in Hampton centre last night, local CID were tied up dealing with multiple offenders.

Anger clouded Helen’s vision. It seemed Inspector Fitzpatrick hadn’t informed her team. She had the distinct feeling he was muscling in on her enquiry. She grabbed the phone and dialled.

Dean answered on the fifth ring, just before the voicemail kicked in. He sounded distracted.

“What’s going on, Dean?”

“What? We’re at Paton’s house. He committed suicide this morning…”

“I know that! You didn’t think to call me?”

The line crackled. “What?”

“Jules Paton is a potential suspect in my murder investigation. We had a warrant to search his property this morning.”

Dean hesitated a moment. “Yeah, I saw Pemberton here. God, Helen, I thought you knew. I just… well saw this as an opportunity to get into his house, search for intelligence.” He sounded rattled. “I’m so sorry.”

She swept his apology under the carpet. “What do we know?”

He shared how Jenny Wilson had followed the cat’s cries and discovered the body. Helen listened intently, but said nothing. When he finished he cleared his throat, “I had no idea he was in this state, Helen… ”

She chewed the side of her mouth. Dean had shared that he knew Jules. That he was an unregistered informant. “How long had you two been in contact?”

“A few months, maybe longer.” His tone softened as he continued, “He wasn’t a bad lad. Not really. Just needed to grow up, and kick the cocaine.”

She let the words soak in. “Anyone spoken to the neighbour?”

“We took a statement from her this morning. She’s pretty shaken.”

Helen recalled Jenny Wilson’s moon-shaped face, Jeremy Kyle on the TV, her interest in the investigation. She remembered how she had felt after seeing her first suicide. For days, weeks, maybe months afterwards, she would see the face in her mind. She felt a pang of empathy.

“Are we sure it’s suicide?”

“No doubt, he even left a note… ”

Chapter
Seventeen

Helen replaced the receiver and turned over the mornings developments in her mind.

The outward airport and inward ferry tickets found in Eva’s flat sat uncomfortably. Why would Naomi and Eva fly out to Milan for a week in March? She recalled a travel programme she’d watched on Italy a couple of weeks back with her mother. They’d only covered Milan briefly. She tried to remember the draws: shopping, culture... The kaleidoscope of colourful clothing in Naomi’s wardrobe flashed into her mind. But they’d scrutinized Naomi’s bank accounts and the state of her overdraft indicated she certainly wasn’t a candidate for shopping. And with average temperatures chasing fourteen degrees, they weren’t sun seeking either. Culture maybe? But why fly out and drive back? Where did they stay and where did they get the return journey car from?

Records showed that the informant’s call was made within two hundred metres of Eva’s address, although this was too far away to actually witness the incident. Why had she disappeared on the night of Naomi’s murder?

She switched to Jules Paton. The evidence found at the scene in Granary Avenue all pointed towards Jules murdering his ex-girlfriend. Gooding estimated Jules had been dead for at least twelve hours. Eva had been sighted in Kinlochard yesterday afternoon before vanishing again. But where was she now?

Too many questions, too many holes. She clicked another button, brought up the image of the suicide note again and stared at it.

A knock at her door broke her concentration. Dark’s impish face appeared. “Fancy a coffee, ma’am?”

Helen nodded. “Thanks. Any news on Eva Carradine?”

Dark shook her head. “Not yet. They’ve got uniform waiting at the property in Scotland.”

“What about forensics?”

“We’ve had preliminaries, but they don’t really tell us anything.”

As Helen rubbed the side of her face she spotted Jenkins approaching through the incident room. From the buoyancy in his step, she guessed he was already aware of the morning’s developments. Dark followed her eyes. “Think I’d better make that two,” she said and hastily retreated.

“Helen!” he cried as he entered her office. “I hear you’ve had a bit of a result.”

“There have been some developments.”

Jenkins snatched back his sleeve, glanced at his watch. “I’ve a meeting with the assistant chief constable in half an hour. Be good to pass on some positive news.”

Helen sighed inwardly at his drive for brownie points and gave him an overview of the morning’s events. He remained silent and calm throughout, although she got the distinct impression he already had a heads up on the details and evidence regarding Jules Paton. She finished up, “Whilst we are tying things up, I would like to continue the search for Eva Carradine. I can’t help feeling… ”

Jenkins sat back in his chair and exhaled loudly. “That won’t be necessary, Helen.”

“What do you mean?”

“It seems pretty straightforward that Jules Paton killed Miss Spence and then himself.”

“We still don’t know that for sure.”

His face tightened. “We have the jacket matching the button found in the victim’s hair, a suicide note of admission and a gun that fits the criteria. It’s only a matter of time before ballistics confirm it was the gun used in the attack.”

“What about the unidentified female informant?” Helen said, feeling every inch of the frown stretch across her forehead.

Jenkins scratched the side of his nose. “There are always anomalies in a case like this. Killers don’t generally offer explanations. You should know that, Helen.”

“The call was made within two hundred metres of Eva’s address,” she said vehemently.

“Anybody could have seen or heard something peculiar, driven home, then pricked their conscience and called an ambulance. More likely it was an acquaintance from the drugs scene. Someone Jules paid to make the call. We may never know. No-one identified her voice and since the actual call can’t be traced to Miss Carradine, there’s no reason to pursue her.”

“I still think we need to find her, to rule that out.”

“Helen.” Jenkins’ eyes hardened. “People take time out, for whatever reason. I’m not wasting Hampton’s budget or the resources of any other force looking for a grown adult who decided to take a break in Scotland. I believe she even called her work. She’ll turn up when she’s ready. In the meantime, I want this one wrapped up.”

“But the timing… ”

Jenkins shook his head. He stood abruptly, just as Dark entered the room with two coffees. “Inspector Fitzpatrick has offered his team to build the file on this one, which is very decent of him given our tight resources. Get your team to liaise with his, and pass over anything that is relevant. The order has come from above. I want you back on those cold case review shootings. We’re under a lot of pressure there.” With that, he swung out of the office, past Dark who was still clasping two cups of coffee, and was gone, leaving Helen to seethe.

***

Eva pressed her foot on the brake as the lights turned red. The drive to Glasgow had taken an hour, but felt like it passed in an instant. Her head was spinning. Why were the police at Lochside? Were they looking for her? The only person who could help her now, was Naomi.

The lights changed and she pulled off again. She’d almost reached the city centre, in the midst of Friday lunchtime traffic. The roads were heavily congested. She followed the car in front of her at a snails’ pace past boutiques, a lighting shop, a Chinese takeaway, a sandwich bar. She braked again as a driver tried to squeeze into the tiniest of parking spaces in front. Eva glanced across at the pavement as she waited: a couple walked hand in hand, hoods pulled over their heads to protect them from the gripping wind, a young woman battled with a pushchair and a toddler who was screaming at the top of his voice; a man in a black suit strode out of a newsagent with a file clutched to his chest. Then she saw it, on the corner of the road, a blue iridescent sign in the window - an internet cafe. She could try to contact Naomi from there, via Facebook.

Her eyes darted about in desperation. A grey concrete multi-storey car park sat barely a hundred yards up. The driver in front of her gave up trying to shoehorn his vehicle into the tiny space and they crawled forward again. She turned at the earliest opportunity into the car park, took a ticket, parked on the second floor, and made her way back up the road.

Her breaths ran short and sharp as she reached the cafe. A bell tinkled above her head as she entered. The desk was empty and she glanced around, her eyes resting on an aquarium filled with tropical fish, positioned near the door. They moved around the tank serenely, as if they didn’t have a care in the world. She paused to watch them. They looked so relaxed.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a movement. A teenage girl had moved away from a computer. She turned and watched her scoop up her jacket from the back of the chair and exit the shop. Eva flipped back to the fish in the aquarium. It suddenly occurred to her that they were a paradox: their whole world existed on a strict balance, a slight change in water temperature, conditions or plant life would initiate stress and they could die. A slight change. Their world could change in an instant. Just like hers…