The Truth Will Out (17 page)

She shuddered.

“Can I help you?” The voice behind her came from nowhere.

She jumped and turned round to see a teenage boy facing her. A student, she guessed by the grungy clothing, with a scrawny body, screwed up features, a face littered with spots and hair that didn’t look as if it had been brushed in a month. She quickly recovered herself. “I’d like a computer for half an hour.”

“£8 an hour, or £5 a half.”

She rummaged in her bag, pulled out a five pound note and handed it over.

“Thanks, any coffee?”

She shook her head.

“Okay, take that one.” He pointed towards the computer at the end, the one just vacated.

“Thanks.”

It took less than ten seconds to log into Facebook. Her fingers worked the keys urgently. The anticipation made her tap her feet as the computer changed screens.

The message that faced her at the top of the screen hit her like a bolt of lightning:

POLICE ARE APPEALING FOR WITNESSES TO THE MURDER OF NAOMI SPENCE ON TUESDAY 19TH MARCH. IN PARTICULAR THEY WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK TO HER CLOSE FRIENDS, JULES PATON AND EVA CARRADINE. ANYONE KNOWING THEIR WHEREABOUTS SHOULD CONTACT HAMPTON POLICE IMMEDIATELY…

Eva didn’t get any further. Her breath halted. A pain seared in her chest. Murder?

She thought back to the scene on Tuesday evening. She had seen a tussle, Naomi had been attacked. But not for one moment had she allowed her brain to entertain the thought that Naomi might have been killed.

Eva stood. The room swayed around her. She was suffocating, as if a layer of cling film covered her head, blocking her airways. She heard a voice in the background, but failed to focus. The room was swimming.

She could hear strange noises, notes in the background. Her feet left the ground and she was floating, as if in a dream when the unimaginable becomes reality. She could see Naomi in the distance, her beautiful red hair tumbling over her shoulders. She was laughing, her head thrown back. Then, as she raised it, her face was frozen in alarm as the hand covered her mouth.

A tugging sensation. Her feet scraped the floor.

Suddenly, a blast of cold air hit Eva directly in the face. She blinked hard, twice. Took very deep breaths. Slowly, in and out. Her vision started to clear.

Eva could see people in the window of a cafe opposite, a man on a mobile phone on the pavement nearby. A couple walked past hand in hand. A car horn beeped in the distance.

“Are you alright, Miss?”

She followed the voice, looked up into the eyes of the grungy lad who had taken her money.

“Miss?”

Her thoughts spiralled. She blinked, then turned and ran.

Chapter
Eighteen

Nate grabbed two bottles of Cobra beer from the fridge, popped the tops and offered one to his uncle who sat in an armchair, arms placed on each rest, head relaxed back. His bald head glistened in the light of the bare bulb overhead. Dark eyes stared at the ceiling.

When his uncle didn’t acknowledge his presence, Nate placed the beer on a small table, decorated with coffee mug and beer bottle rings. Loose ash from the overflowing ashtray in the centre skipped into the air as the bottle hit the hard surface.

Nate heard raised voices in the street outside: a high-pitched woman screeched words he couldn’t decipher, a low husky tone shouted over her. A door slammed shut. All was quiet.

“You did good, Nate,” his uncle eventually said. He gave a slight nod, but his eyes were still fixed on the ceiling.

Although Nate swelled inwardly, he had learnt not to show his feelings. It might look arrogant. And his uncle hated arrogance. Instead he stared at the only human being who had ever shown him any kindness, awestruck.

Nate barely remembered his mother. He recalled occasional moments with a woman he later identified from photographs as his mother: a tiny, mouse-like face, crowned with short dirty blond hair, pallid skin, vacant eyes. As a young boy he remembered being in a room with her and stubbing his toe on a door. He’d cried out, rushed to hug her. As they collided she’d frozen. Her hard eyes and closed frame formed an image so vivid it lodged in his memory. And from that moment on, he avoided contact. But whenever she was present, the air felt tight, the tension palpable.

Uncle Chilli lowered his chin to make eye contact. He let the stare linger slightly before he spoke, “Make yourself scarce now, son. I’m expecting company.”

Nate showed no reaction, just stood, exited the lounge and climbed the staircase.

He reached his bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. A grubby, unkempt duvet spilt out of its case next to him. Nate glanced at his watch. Six thirty. He folded his arms behind his head and lay back. Time to open the club soon. He knew his uncle had done a stretch, but he never discussed his crime or his prison life with Nate. Since his release, he’d built a business running Black Cats nightclub and bar, extending his empire to include a couple of nail bars more recently, yet Nate knew it was his secret operations, the drugs supply and prostitution, that were the real earners. Officially, Nate was on the payroll as a bouncer and driver, although his favourite jobs were the undercover ‘special assignments’ and, in recent years, Chilli had entrusted many more of these to him.

He rolled his eyes as he recognised a pair of knickers with a black lace trim on the floor. Bloody hookers. On his sixteenth birthday his uncle had thrown a party in the club’s private room. He was introduced to the girls and asked to pick. They all looked the same to him, all ass and tits.

One approached him, sat on his lap and thrust her tongue into his mouth. He remembered that moment like it was yesterday. He could taste a mixture of garlic, and cheese and onion crisps. He’d pushed her off roughly, too roughly and she fell to the ground. His uncle had taken him to one side, ‘We don’t hurt the girls, son,’ he’d said. ‘They can’t earn if they’re sick.’ Enough said.

Since that evening there were always girls available when Nate needed them. He was mechanical, dismissing them when his needs were satisfied. He didn’t raise his hand to any of them again, and he didn’t kiss them on the lips either. You never knew where those dirty lips had been.

A noise downstairs caught his attention. It sounded like a chair had been knocked over, a glass crashed to the floor. Raised voices followed. He heard his uncle’s cutting words above them, “It’s not good enough!” Nate sat perfectly still. His hand raked across the acne pits on his face. Chilli shouted a lot these days.

Nate grabbed his Xbox remote control and selected ‘Call of Duty’. While the game loaded he thought about his uncle’s associates. One day, he would be involved in these meetings. One day, he would be at the centre of the operation, take over from his uncle. He fisted his hands, knocked his knuckles together.
Clink, clink, clink.
Then he really would be THE MAN.

***

Helen’s shoes beat the linoleum flooring on her way to Dean’s office, late that afternoon. She still smarted from her conversation with Jenkins, convinced that the disappearance of Eva Carradine was connected to the investigation. If she could get Dean on side, perhaps they could join forces to persuade the powers that be to keep tabs on Eva?

Dean’s team were located on the floor below Helen in one of the spare suites kept for review teams, incident rooms and special projects. Faces turned as she entered the suite. She recognised a few members of his team she’d seen around the station and tipped her head at them. The layout of the room was the same as the Homicide and Major Incident suite and she made for Dean’s office in the corner. The blinds were drawn.

Just as she raised her fist to knock on his door, she heard a voice behind her, “Can I help you?”

She turned on her heels to face a young detective in a tailored, black suit. Her dark hair was cropped severely short. “I’m here to see Inspector Fitzpatrick.”

“He’s a bit busy at the moment.”

Helen widened her eyes. “I’m sure he’ll spare me five minutes.”

The detective stared back at her protectively. Just then a voice piped up from the back of the room, “It’s alright Maggie, you can let the DCI through.” Helen followed the voice to DS Edwards who had just walked through the door.

The young DC flushed immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t realise… ”

Helen managed a kind smile. Rank in senior detectives wasn’t always obvious when they were in plain clothes. “It’s fine, really.” The young DC moved away hastily to hide her embarrassment. Helen nodded to Edwards, knocked once and entered, without waiting for invitation.

Like Helen’s, Dean’s desk faced the door. He sat behind it. He was bent forward, head buried in arms that were folded in front of him, his phone scattered haphazardly to his side. He looked up, startled at her intrusion.

She paused fleetingly, then pulled the door closed behind her and approached his desk. “Are you okay?”

He nodded and smiled weakly, but his face was flat.

She inclined her head to the door. “Had a job to get through security!”

When he didn’t respond, Helen suddenly became aware of something. She’d never seen cracks appear in his calm façade before. He’d always been confident and in control. She couldn’t help but wonder – in the short time they were together – did he ever really let her in? She thought she knew him so well. There was a time when she would have claimed to know him better than anyone.

“What’s up?” she asked.

He lifted his head and gestured for her to sit on the chair opposite. His mouth opened, then closed again, as if he didn’t trust his own voice.

The anxiety in Dean’s face flicked a light switch in her mind. She had seen this deadpan expression in colleagues before. The average police officer views multiple dead bodies throughout their career. And every one leaves a mark. But there was something about suicide, something desperate that clung like a barnacle to a rock. Especially if you knew the victim.

His phone buzzed next to him. Helen glanced at it, then at Dean. “Are you going to get that?”

He picked up the phone, pressed a digit and cast it aside.

Dean rubbed his right hand up and down his face. “I keep seeing his eyes.” He swallowed loudly. “Desperate, dead eyes… ” Helen’s instincts told her to comfort him, wrap her arms around him, pull him close. But she didn’t want to do anything that may convey the wrong impression. “I should have known,” he continued. “I could have done something.”

She was desperate to ask about Eva, seek his support in her continued search. Only now just wasn’t the right time.

“Right, that’s it,” she said and stood. “We’re getting you out of here.”

He shook his head. “No… ”

“We’ll go for a coffee,” she interrupted.

He ran his hands through his hair. “There’s no need.”

Helen wasn’t listening. She’d moved around the desk and was wrestling his jacket onto his shoulders. “I insist.”

Chapter
Nineteen

As soon as they walked through the door of The Angel Tavern, Helen felt eyes burning into her. It was one of those old-fashioned pubs with a jazzy carpet that stank of stale beer and a bunch of regulars at the bar who gaped at every stranger that entered. The gazes lingered as she followed Dean to the bar and she knew why. Even in plain clothes, cops stood out in a place like this. She might as well have worn a name badge.

After parking nearby, Helen had tried to steer Dean into Hayes cafe, but the look on his face at the mere suggestion silenced her. There was only one kind of solace he sought this evening. She watched as he ordered a pint of Guinness for himself, a vodka and coke for her.

The gentle music in the background was drowned out by the hoard of teenagers that surrounded the pool table at the end of the bar. A couple of young heads looked up momentarily, their attention quickly taken by the next shot.

Helen took her drink and followed Dean to a table tucked away in the far corner, away from the intrusive glares. The music seemed louder in the private space and she could make out Sting’s dulcet tones, although couldn’t place the song.

Dean took a huge gulp of his pint and placed it on one of the many beer mats scattered on their table.

“Are you okay?” Helen asked as she sat next to him on the lumpy cushion that covered the wooden bench.

He didn’t speak for a moment. When he turned towards her, a shadow of despair crept across his face. “He was so young.”

Helen swallowed. The job exposed you to the most horrific situations on occasions, those that most folk wouldn’t experience in a lifetime. For the most part, you become numb, training sets in and you adopt an empathetic but detached approach. But every now and then, some events catch you, drive a needle below the surface and leave a residue behind that’s hard to erase.

She had seen the same anguish in her father’s eyes on many occasions. That kind of deep despair that hit home when all hope was dashed. She looked away, gave him time to regain his composure.

The walls were plastered in painted woodchip, yellowed from years of smokers before the ban. It was curled in the corners, peeling back from the wall. The photo of Naomi seated at the piano at the Spences’ house entered her head. She was young too, young, talented and beautiful…

The song changed to ‘Every Breath You Take’. She listened awhile. When she looked back at Dean, his eyes were fixed on his glass.

“There was nothing you could do,” she said gently.

He lifted his head to face her. “How do you know?”

The question took her aback and she thought for a moment before she answered, “He was… ” She hesitated, not wanting to say the word ‘informant’. Because Jules wasn’t an informant. Not officially. “… helping you with enquiries,” she said. “There was no way of your knowing what a mess he was in.”

“Mess?” Dean hissed the word out.

“People don’t commit suicide unless they’re desperate,” Helen said, battling to keep the conversation calm. “If he killed his girlfriend… ”

“If?”

“Well, we still have to establish… ”

“
We
don’t have to establish anything. We have his jacket, the note. He killed her, then himself.”