The Truth Will Out (20 page)

“Yeah, right.” Helen chuckled. “All packed?”

“Think so. Can’t wait!”

When Matthew shared his ambition to join the Air Force last year, Helen had felt sick to the stomach. If that wasn’t bad enough, he followed it up with his longing to fly aeroplanes. Losing John in a freak helicopter accident ten years earlier had made Helen fiercely anti-forces. To this day, any mention of the Army on the radio, of war on the news, of new Navy battleships, made her curse.

But Matthew had done his homework and investigated university courses before he raised the issue. She’d felt compelled to support him, even though the thought of him in the air still made her lightheaded, and encouraged him to join the Air Cadets, secretly hoping a taste of military life might put him off. He’d embraced the idea wholeheartedly. This was his first field trip. Canoeing and rock climbing. At least this time he would be keeping his feet on the ground, although the flying would come soon. She just knew it.

“That’s good,” Helen said. She glanced at the clock. Just after twelve thirty. “What time are you leaving?”

“Around four. Gran’s dropping me at the centre. Are you coming?”

“I can’t I’m afraid, I’m sorry. I have a meeting with the super.” Her heart dropped. “Thought I’d come back now and wish you all the best.”

“Never mind.”

Helen smiled warmly. “Where’s Gran, and Robert?”

“Robert’s gone to Jack’s and Gran’s gone shopping with Auntie Jo.”

Helen stretched her neck back. “Really?” She couldn’t imagine Jo and her mother browsing M&S, picking out clothes in Next and Wallis. Jane Lavery hated trawling the shops.

Matt laughed. “Well, Gran dropped her off in town while she went to the supermarket.”

“Oh right, listen Matt… We need to have a quick chat before you go on your trip.”

“We do?”

“The other night… ” Helen cleared her throat.

“What?”

She hesitated. “The other night in your room, with Leah.”

He shrugged. “What about it?”

“Look Matt, I know you are getting older, exploring… ”

He stepped back and dug his hands in his pockets. “Look, Mum, if this is what I think it is, you’re about six years too late. They started teaching us this stuff in year five.”

“I realise you know. I’m trying to be practical.” Helen paused searching for the right words. “I don’t like the idea of your exploring right now, you’re still underage. But if you must… ”

Matthew’s face folded. “I can’t listen to this.” He turned to go.

“Just make sure you’re careful,” she said.

“What?”

“I mean… if you need me to get anything… or your gran…”

“Mum! If I need anything, which I don’t, then I’ll get it myself. Jesus… I’m going to finish packing.”

Helen listened to his feet hit every step of the staircase and his door slam. The music throbbed louder. She pressed her fingers to her temples and leant back against the kitchen side. Once again she longed for John’s easy temperament and jovial manner. He would have definitely handled that conversation better. Matthew was so like his father, they plucked the same strings.

She sighed, reached for her bag and retrieved the rechargeable torch she’d picked up for him, along with a tiny expanding camping towel, and headed up the stairs. It wouldn’t do to part on a bad note.

Chapter
Twenty-Two

Helen looked across the desk at Superintendent Jenkins. Telephone clutched to his left ear, he smoothed his right eyebrow between the thumb and forefinger of his free hand. He had been on the phone since she arrived, pausing only briefly to signal for her to sit in the chair opposite, before continuing his conversation. He said very little, yet his mood darkened the room.

Several minutes passed. She gave up trying to decipher his one-sided conversation and glanced around his office, wondering how many of her little cubicles would fit comfortably inside. The conference table at the far end was surrounded by chairs all pushed underneath, the books on the bookcase were aligned in height order, the papers on his desk stacked in neat piles. A laptop sat open in front of him.

The abstract painting on the wall caught her attention: just a few splodges of yellow and orange. There didn’t seem to be a pattern and it certainly didn’t resemble any recognisable shape. Helen could appreciate the talent of artists, but preferred something she could relate to like landscapes or portraits. It suddenly occurred to her that this was the only personal artefact in Jenkins’ office. There were no photos on his desk of family, nothing to indicate a life outside work. It reminded her how little she knew of the man behind the suit.

She’d heard rumours that he was divorced and lived alone but Jenkins never discussed his private life, and she often wondered if that was simply because he didn’t have one.

He replaced the receiver, leant back in his chair and steepled his long fingers before he spoke, “Thank you for coming, Helen.”

His sour tone caught her off balance slightly. When his secretary had called earlier to arrange the appointment, she assumed that it was to discuss the cold cases. Now she wasn’t so sure. “You asked to see me?”

“Yes.”

“Helen, would you mind telling me why you still have Scottish police watching Miss Carradine’s parents’ bungalow?”

“Of course, sir.” She was startled he’d discovered this, since she’d requested that all communication came through her. But Jenkins was a skilled detective and, whilst he tended to toe the political line adopted by many senior ranking officers, he did have the ability to consider the wider aspects of an investigation.

She presented a concise update of the case so far - the sizing of the jacket, the suicide note and reiterated the phone call by the female informant made so close to Carradine’s address, closely followed by the disappearance of Eva herself.

Jenkins didn’t interrupt. He sat, one leg crossed over another, which made his body appear at an angle, hands now folded in his lap.

When she finished he unfolded himself and leant forward. “Helen, I’m going to give you a piece of advice. Don’t let enthusiasm spoil your career.”

“But, sir… ”

“You disobeyed an order yesterday. I specifically asked you to leave Eva Carradine out of it.”

“But, considering the facts… ”

“There are no facts.” His terse calmness cut through her like a knife. “People go away all the time.” Jenkins leant back, pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and closed his eyes momentarily. “Hell, where is the money supposed to be coming from?”

“I’m sure I can… ”

“That’s enough. There isn’t cash for hunches and whims. We have a tight case and the offer of central resources to tie up the loose ends, which is worth its weight in gold. Problem is, any saving we might have realised, you have now blown on a whimsy notion with Strathclyde police force. I’m not going to repeat the evidence that points to a case solved, Helen, but I will say that this investigation is no longer yours. DI Fitzpatrick’s team will close this one. Lend him one of your officers to aid the smooth transition. We move on.”

His voice softened, “Let’s put this behind us. You got a good result on the Bracken Way case last year. You’ve got another one here. These jobs take it out of you - the hours, the headaches, the decisions. Take the weekend off, maybe spend it with your family. Come back on Monday and let’s show the chief what we can do with these cold case shootings.”

She stared back at him, but held her tongue.

His face slackened. “Look Helen, you’re a good cop. Senior investigating officer on homicide is a difficult job. You have to balance leading an investigation with being a team player. Sometimes that’s not easy.”

“I don’t have a problem leading my team, sir. Actually, many of them share my view… ”

“Then it’s your job to change their mind,” he interrupted. Once again, his tone adopted a harsh inflection. “
You
give the orders. Believe me, you have to kick a few butts from time to time to gain respect in this place. You say, they do. That’ll lick them back into shape.”

Helen was infuriated. How dare he question her ability to manage. His empty words and lack of respect for his colleagues made her embarrassed for his rank.

Not for the first time, Helen left Jenkins’ office, raging like a bull. He was so wrong, yet he couldn’t see it. Couldn’t or wouldn’t? Where was Eva Carradine? At the bottom of a ravine? Floating in a lake? Since officers reached her parents’ bungalow in Scotland, she hadn’t returned. Helen pursed her lips. The surveillance on Eva Carradine may have been cancelled, but she’d make sure she lent one of her best detectives to Dean’s team. It always paid to keep your eyes and ears open.

***

A stream of vehicles stretched out in front of Eva as she pulled off the M80 towards Callander and slowed to a halt. She sat there for several minutes, tapping the steering wheel. When nothing moved, she cut the engine and climbed out. The view from the side of the road showed a line of traffic stretching to the horizon.

She sighed, climbed back into her KA and turned on the radio, fiddling with the channels until she found what sounded like a local station, hoping for some travel news. When Abba’s ‘Dancing Queen’ filled the car, she turned the volume down to low. She glanced at the car behind her in her rear-view mirror, then turned it to view her own reflection.

She stared at the stranger in the mirror. The severe black fringe accentuated her eyes - they looked bluer, larger; dark lashes curled out of pale eyelids. She couldn’t deny that the hairdresser had done a wonderful job, skilfully layering the inverted bob at the back so that it fell softly forward into her face. In other circumstances she might even have liked the change.

An image of her mother skipped into her head. She had always been so proud of her daughter’s natural, blond locks. She’d be so disappointed. Eva raked her hands through what was left of her mane. It felt false, like nylon. Once again she had messed everything up.

***

Helen sighed and shut down her laptop. She was supposed to be rereading the ballistic reports on the Roxten boys’ shootings, but her brain refused to focus. She made her way downstairs to join her family. The blare of the television drew her to the living room where she found Jo and Robert on the sofa watching a movie.

“Hi guys,” she said. “Anyone want tea?”

“No thanks,” Jo said, without looking up. Robert shook his head.

“Where’s Gran?”

“Gone to watch her own TV,” Robert said, eyes glued to the screen.

Helen looked up to see squirts of blood spray across the television screen. The image changed to a girl’s terrified bloodied face, then back to a car windscreen as two lines of blood dribbled down to the wipers. Helen turned to Robert and Jo. “What is this?” Her question elicited no response. She switched back to the television to see the bloodied girl stumble around the car and discover the body of an old man with one eye shot out.

“Ewww.” Robert said, still absorbed in the screen.

Jo grimaced. “That’s gross.”

“What is this?” Helen repeated.

“Wolf Creek,”
Jo answered.

“What?” The alarm in Helen’s voice pulled both pairs of eyes to her. “You’re not watching this!” She bent down, grabbed the remote and changed channels.

“Hey!” Robert said.

“Robert, it’s an eighteen rated film, and a damaged one at that. You’re not watching it!”

“Oh, come on,” he pleaded. “All my mates have seen it.”

“No, way.” Helen shook her head and retreated to the kitchen, teeth clenched.

She sat at the table and pressed her palm to her forehead to soothe the ache that was gaining momentum. A tiny thought niggled her. Earlier, the phone company confirmed that the call made from Naomi’s phone on Wednesday, the day after she was killed, was made from somewhere in the Roxten vicinity. Did Jules visit his boys and use Naomi’s phone before he died? Or did Karen Paton make that call? One thing was for sure. It wasn’t Eva. She was in Scotland…

“Are you okay?”

Helen looked up to see Jo standing at the doorway. “Fine. That film was far too old for Robert.”

“Sorry. I didn’t realise it was going to be that gruesome.”

“Christ, Jo! It’s an eighteen certificate. He’s only just thirteen.”

“I’ve said I’m sorry.”

“Well, sorry isn’t enough when it comes to kids.” The barbed words escaped before Helen could soften them.

Jo stiffened. “Perhaps that’s telling me something, eh?”

Helen sighed loudly, trying to calm her acerbic tone. “I wasn’t implying that your… ”

“Save it!” Jo interrupted. “I need time to think.” And with that she stomped out of the kitchen.

Helen placed her head in her hands. The day was turning into a disaster. Her conversation with Matthew hadn’t gone well, she’d upset Robert, argued with Jo. As she massaged her forehead, Jenkins’ face popped into her mind. Was that why she was so tetchy? Because she’d been taken off the case? Because no-one could see the holes in the investigation? Or was it because, deep down, she was starting to think they might be right.

***

Sleep didn’t come easily to Helen that evening. She tossed and turned like a paddle boat in the midst of a mighty storm.

When she finally did drift off, her slumber was haunted by dreams.

She was in Naomi’s house, trudging down the stairs. Shrill screams filled the air around her. They were coming from the lounge. The metallic smell of blood seeped out of every crevice. The faster she moved, the more steps appeared beneath her.

The scenery changed. She was standing on the pavement outside Jules Paton’s house, an innocent bystander. Karen Paton and Naomi were shouting. She couldn’t make out the words. They seemed oblivious to her existence. Naomi became increasingly agitated. Karen’s boys tugged at her sleeve, crying.

Another change. Helen was following Naomi down a dusty bridleway. Fields stretched out across rolling country on either side. She had to quicken her pace to keep up. Naomi’s red hair hung loose. Wisps reached out and danced in the wind. Helen sped up to reach her. Just as she caught up she felt something brush her shoulder. She glanced behind to see Jules Paton’s face. As she turned back, someone had moved in front of her, blocking her path. They collided. Helen stumbled and almost fell. When she recovered herself, she looked up into the eyes of Karen Paton.