The Truth Will Out (6 page)

It couldn’t have looked more different to the square of lawn and brown shed that formed the view out of Jenny Wilson’s kitchen window earlier that morning. Proving less than a five minute detour from her journey, Helen had called in to see Jenny on her way to Memington Hall. Arriving just before eight thirty, a round woman with a ruddy, jowly face met her at the door. Jenny greeted Helen with an inquisitive smile, as if this were the only exciting event to occur in her life for many years. Her chest heaved as she led Helen through the narrow hallway, past the open door to the lounge where Jeremy Kyle blared out from the television and into the small kitchen at the back, where they’d sat together at a polished pine table. But any hopes of discovering a clue as to Jules Paton’s location were quickly dashed. Although Jenny’s account took her twenty minutes to relay, it held nothing more than what her husband had told them the night before. That Jules had gone away last Sunday and wasn’t due back until this weekend.

Phillipa turned back and pocketed her phone. “Sorry about that. Where were we?”

“You granted leave.”

“Ah, yes - I believe Naomi went away on holiday with a friend. To Italy I think. She returned to work on Monday.”

“Do you know who she went with?”

Phillipa shook her head. “No.”

“How has she been since her return?”

“I’m afraid I can’t really say. I’ve been away at a conference the last couple of days and have only spoken to her on the phone since she’s been back. But she seemed fine.”

***

Nobody noticed the man in a baseball cap, skulking in Granary Avenue that morning. Nate had become accustomed to sinking into the background. He’d stood beside the flaked trunk of the plane tree opposite Paton’s house and watched Helen arrive. Just like last night when he’d spied on her as she checked out Jules’ place with her colleague. Everything about the detective chief inspector screamed of police. But there was a clean prettiness in her complexion. And with her softly curved frame, the long dark hair messily tied back, the crisp white shirt that stretched across her chest… Nate felt a stirring in his groin. Her tenacity was impressive. Especially since she didn’t know he was there. Watching, waiting.

He fisted his hands and knocked his sovereign rings together.
Clink. Clink. Clink.

***

Naomi’s room at Memington shared the same wood panelling, latticed window, oil painting of a man in eighteenth century dress, but was half the size of the manageress’. A similar oak desk was situated in front of the window and beside it a bookcase jammed with old books that looked as if they hadn’t been touched in years. In the other corner was an arrangement of French style chairs around a low table.

Helen checked her watch. She’d just taken a call from the superintendent. He wanted her back at the station and had sent Pemberton to relieve her, ringing off before she could ask why. Helen sighed. Time was tight. And Phillipa Hartwell hadn’t given her much to work on. She pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth, remembering her father’s motto: ‘the devil is in the detail.’ He loved this quote, which formed the basis of every investigation he managed - note everything, however insignificant it may seem at the time, because you never know when you might need it.

She pulled the latex gloves out of her bag and wriggled her hands into them. Apart from an old-fashioned blotter, the top of the desk was completely clear - no desk tidy, no photographs, no in-tray, no computer. She thought back to Phillipa Hartwell’s office. Her desk was in the same immaculate condition. Either they didn’t do any work around here, or it was all locked away somewhere.

On closer inspection, the desk was not as old as it initially appeared, more like a reproduction of an eighteenth century version. She ran her finger over it, the rubber clinging to the varnished oak. The blotter was neatly laid over a green leather inset and there were three drawers down one side. Helen opened the bottom drawer first and immediately came face to face with Naomi’s workload. Hanging files contained pink envelope folders, marked with names and dates of clients. She opened one named ‘Taylor - Letts Wedding 16 July’ to find a timetable, a page of notes that looked like they were taken at a meeting and a spreadsheet of prices. Curious, she scanned down to the total, which read £21,653.47, and balked. It was astonishing what people spent on weddings these days.

Helen fleetingly remembered her own wedding at The George Hotel in Hampton centre, a Georgian building that had since been converted into luxury apartments. Both just out of university, their budget tight, her only indulgence was a vintage wedding dress costing just short of two hundred pounds. Her father had still been alive back then and paid for a small reception of forty close family and friends. It couldn’t have cost more than two thousand, all in.

She replaced the folder, closed the drawer and opened the top one. This housed a tidy array of pens, paper clips, a ruler and highlighters. Helen moved on to the middle drawer. It squealed like a kitten’s meow as she pulled it open. Two leather-bound books – one black, one a deep wine red – sat on top of a laptop. She flicked through the pages of the black book. It listed names, times, dates: Naomi’s professional appointments. She turned to last Tuesday. There were two appointments listed for that day. One at 11.00am for the Shaws’ and one at 6.00pm for Michaela Taylor. Both had contact numbers.

She looked through pages of addresses in the other book, and then cast it aside.

A thought struck her. She picked up the diary again and brushed back a couple of pages. Her heart sank. She was hoping for some mention of the holiday, perhaps a name of who she went with and where, but the pages were blank. Frustrated, she put it down on top of the desk. All these items would need to be bagged up, cross referenced and thoroughly examined back at the station.

Her eyes rested on the laptop still in the drawer. It seemed strange to have everything hidden away, no computers on desks, no printers in the corner.

A sudden knock turned her attention to the door. She looked up to see Sergeant Pemberton’s head appear. “Sean.” She beckoned him in, not at all surprised to see the manageress at his tail. “I see you’ve met Phillipa Hartwell?”

He nodded. “Just now.”

Helen turned to face her. “This is Sergeant Pemberton. He’ll be getting things organised here to interview your staff.”

Phillipa stared at them both. “Right, I’ll leave you to it then.”

Pemberton chuckled as he closed the door. “I see she’s not a fan of ‘old bill’ crawling all over her fine establishment.”

“Doesn’t look like it. Any news yet on ballistics? Forensics?”

“Just checked. CSI are still at the property, but hoping to get us a preliminary report by tomorrow morning. They were able to confirm that the powder we found in the bathroom was cocaine though.”

“Is that the best they can do?”

He gave a frustrated nod. “I’ll keep pushing. We’ve just had a call from the paramedics. When they moved the victim from the house to the morgue they found a black button tangled in her hair.”

Helen widened her eyes. “Oh?”

“It’s possible it belonged to a jacket the killer was wearing and became dislodged in the scuffle.”

“Any distinctive features?”

“It bears the mark
Toujours.
We’re looking into whether that’s some kind of designer clothes brand, to try to identify the item of clothing it belonged to.”

“Excellent. Keep me posted.”

“Oh, and the bullet in the skirting board has been couriered to ballistics. I’ve spoken to my contact there and they’re snowed under with the current drive on outstanding gun crime cases. But he’s going to give us priority. We should hear back within a few days.”

“Good. Any news on Mr Paton?”

“Nothing as yet. We’ve checked with all major ports and he hasn’t left during the last seven days. No sightings of his car on police network cameras either. He seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“Anything on the victim’s phone records?”

“We’ve been chasing. It should be through any time. Dark’s gone out to support the family and see what extra information she can glean. Spencer’s working through the list of her friends to see if that throws up anything. I’ll just get the guys set up here to take statements and then head back to give him a hand.”

“Okay.” She glanced around the room. “Well, better be off. Don’t want to keep the super waiting, do we?”

Chapter
Six

The traffic on the motorway thinned as Eva pressed north. As she passed a Sainsbury’s supermarket lorry in the nearside lane the road stretched out in front of her. An image of Naomi seated at her computer screen entered her head. Where was she now? How badly was she hurt? Eva felt a sharp pang in her chest.

The surrounding countryside had flattened, offering open views across a patchwork of agricultural fields. But her brain refused to focus. Her stomach clenched as her mind wandered back to that day in France where this nightmare began.

A sea of foreign words swam in the garage air around her. Eva’s eyes were glued to the packages in the door panel. Drugs. They had to be drugs. Why else would they be hidden away in the door panelling?

The French mechanic threw his arms up in the air. He spouted words Eva couldn’t understand. She glanced across at Naomi whose gaze was fixed on the door. Her mouth hung open, face petrified. At that moment Eva had no idea what to do.

Suddenly, the Frenchman bent down and collected the screws. Gently moving the packets aside, he rewound the window and replaced the panelling.

As soon as he finished he looked up at her with a mixture of fear and anger in his eyes. He made a shooing motion with his arms. When Eva didn’t move, his voice became excited and he pushed her arm towards the car.

Eva reached down for her purse, but he shook his head vehemently and motioned again for them to leave. She grabbed Naomi, pushed her into the passenger seat and climbed into the driver’s side. The tyres screeched as she spun off the forecourt and down the road out of town.

Neither spoke. Eva pressed her foot to the floor, cornering the mini around sharp bends, down country lanes, through tiny villages, heading in no particular direction. All the time she churned over the events in her mind. Something about the French mechanic’s reaction told her that he wouldn’t call the police. Yet it didn’t stop her race as far away from the town as possible, leaving the incident behind. But it wasn’t left behind. She was taking the packets with her, hidden in the door panelling.

Somebody carefully secreted those packages, knowing the car was being driven back to the UK. Eva didn’t do drugs. She hated what they did to people, what they’d done to Naomi. Her eyes were fixed on the road. Naomi referred to herself as a social user, but Eva knew she struggled to stay away from the stuff. One of the reasons for this holiday was to secure a break from it. And cocaine isn’t cheap.

Anger began to fester like an ulcer in Eva’s chest. She pulled the wheel to the right and braked sharply, bringing the car to an abrupt stop at the side of the road.

“What’s going on?” Naomi said.

“You tell me.”

“What?”

Eva shot Naomi a penetrating stare and jabbed her thumb at the door beside her. “Well, these didn’t pop up out of thin air!”

“I don’t know anything about them.” Naomi’s head shook violently.

“No?”

“Really! I’ve no idea.”

Silence followed. Eva’s stomach reeled. “I don’t believe you,” she snarled.

“Honestly, Eva. Please.”

“I thought you’d given up the drugs?”

Naomi shrunk back. “I have. I promise. I haven’t touched a line in weeks.”

Eva didn’t respond. She turned her attention back to the road, as if it contained a clue that would jump out and grab her.

“Anyway,” Naomi said, filling the silence. “It looks more like heroin than cocaine.”

“Great!” Eva’s voice cracked as she raised a hand to her forehead. “Well, you should know.”

“I’ve never touched heroin. I’m not that stupid. But, I saw a programme on it once. It’s naturally light brown. Cocaine is white.”

“And expensive. Is this how you fund your habit?”

“No!”

Eva turned to face her friend. When she spoke her voice was barely a whisper. “How could you involve me in this?”

“Eva, don’t do this. Please!”

Tears pooled in Naomi’s eyes, just as they had when she was seven-years-old and one of the older girls pinched her skipping rope in the playground. Friends since primary school, they’d lived in the same road, walked to school together, had tea at each other’s houses, played at the local park. Naomi’s parents moved away when she was sixteen but, even though there was a school year between them in age, they stayed in touch. Through college and university, they met up in the holidays. Eva felt like she knew Naomi almost as well as her own family. And Naomi had always been a bad liar. Ever since she was young, when Naomi was lying her right eye twitched slightly, her face coloured. Eva scanned her friend’s face now, but there was no trace of the twitch and her face was ghostlike. “Well, somebody knows it’s here. What do you think?”

Naomi stared back, but said nothing.

“Ring, Jules!”

Naomi looked at her in astonishment. “You’re not suggesting… ”

“You got any better ideas? This was his idea, the holiday, the apartment, the car. Why do you think he offered it to us?”

“He said I needed a break. He was trying to help… ” Naomi shook her head, as if to dismiss the bad thoughts sneaking their way in.

“What about this?” Eva waved her hand towards the door. “He’s used us.”

“No. He wouldn’t do that.”

“Then, how do you explain it?”

Naomi pulled the phone out of her pocket. Eva watched, shifting impatiently in her seat as she pressed the digits and raised it to her ear. After what seemed an age, she shook her head. “Voicemail.”

Eva sighed heavily. She faced the road, considering their options. “I think we should call the police.”

“The police… in France?”

Eva slapped her hand across the steering wheel. “Why not? We haven’t done anything wrong!”