The Truth Will Out (7 page)

“But they might not believe us, or even understand.”

Eva mulled this over. Naomi had a point. The police would ask a million questions: Where did you stay? Where are you travelling to? Who does the vehicle belong to? They might put them in a cell until they could organise an interpreter. They might not believe them.

Eva drew a deep breath. “Maybe we should empty them out?”

“Leave them here?”

“Why not?”

“What if kids come by and find them?”

Eva climbed out of the car and looked around. They were in a country lane. She could hear the autoroute in the background. She couldn’t see any houses, church spires, outbuildings; just rolling countryside. It would have been a beautiful aspect in different circumstances.

But that didn’t mean that there wasn’t a village somewhere nearby. And the French did love to cycle these country lanes.

She turned to Naomi who had climbed out to join her. “What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know. I mean they belong to somebody. Or rather somebody is expecting them. Won’t we get into trouble if we dump them?”

Eva narrowed her eyes. “You’re not suggesting… ”

“I’m not suggesting anything. We just need to think this through.”

“Let’s drive to the nearest town, find an industrial bin and empty them out.” But even as Eva spoke the words, a thought crept into her mind. She looked back at the vehicle, shining in the afternoon sunlight. She had seen a programme on smuggling a few years ago where they stripped a car down to show all the little crevices where illegal goods could be stored: tiny gaps between the ceiling panelling and roof held hand guns, the spare tyre had been opened and filled with packages of drugs. The car could be riddled with drugs and goodness knows what other illegal substances. And how would she retrieve them? She didn’t even have a screwdriver.

“We need to dump the whole car.” Eva spoke slowly as her brain formulated the idea. It seemed the only option. They could leave it for Jules to collect himself. It was his problem. But how would they get home?

The girls sat on the grass verge beside the car and pooled their cash. They barely made fifteen euros between them. Eva cursed herself for maxing out her two credit cards, living life on an overdraft that exceeded its limit until she got paid the following Monday. She only took the holiday because it was a freebie. Jules covered the budget flights out, the short ferry crossing back, arranged for them to have use of his friend’s apartment in Milan. Naomi’s situation was no better. Having drained her account of the last few pounds for spending money, she hadn’t even left sufficient funds to make her next mortgage payment.

They talked about contacting their parents. The idea made Eva recoil. Her parents wouldn’t welcome a telephone call interrupting their holiday in South Africa, even if she could reach them. Especially a call asking for money.

Naomi was convinced her father wouldn’t help, particularly since he knew the holiday was arranged by Jules.

Naomi stood and rubbed her hand across her forehead, knocking her sunglasses off her head. They rattled as they hit the floor. As she picked them up, her face slackened. She faced Eva. “Look, I reckon Jules brought this car in for someone. We know he comes out to the continent all the time to bring in cars. Perhaps they picked this particular car and organised this.”

“I don’t care who organised… ”

“Bad people deal in this sort of thing,” she interrupted. “And they won’t be happy if their goods don’t arrive.”

“I won’t be happy if we get arrested. Christ, Naomi, smuggling illegal drugs into the country? We could go to prison!”

“That’s assuming we get caught. Look, we’re out of choices. We need the car to get home. I say ignore them. In the unlikely event that anyone stops and searches us, we’ll just deny all knowledge. It’s not our car, remember?”

Eva stood very still for several minutes, working her options. There had to be a way out of this. Every sinew in Eva’s body screamed that this was a bad idea. But what was the alternative? Wherever they dumped them here, they might get into the wrong hands, a child even. “I don’t believe I’m doing this.”

Eva swallowed and turned her attention back to the road in front of her. She caught the large blue sign for Glasgow at the last minute and swung a sharp left onto the slip road. A lorry blew its horn, but she ignored it. What mattered now was to get as far away from Hampton as possible. She needed time to think.

Chapter
Seven

Helen spotted Superintendent Jenkins as soon as she entered the incident room. He was stood at the window in her office, staring out at the car park below. Although not a particularly tall man at five foot, nine inches, his mere presence seemed to shrink the room to a tiny box.

She halted in the main office to fill a plastic cup from the water dispenser. Spencer twisted in his seat to face her. “Morning, ma’am.” He followed her eye line. “He’s been in there for twenty minutes.”

Helen’s heart sank. Jenkins was known for his diplomatic approach to policing. There were brief moments when he’d shown great support, lent inspirational knowledge to a case, but only when it fit with current policy targets. He disliked protracted investigations and switched allegiance as quickly as a dirty politician. “Any new developments?” she asked.

He shook his head.

She emptied the cup, chucked it in the bin and moved forward uttering, “Okay, cover me.” Spencer’s grin warmed her back as she approached her office.

Jenkins turned as soon as the door clicked open. “Morning, sir.” She scooted past him, dropping her briefcase and bag behind the desk.

“Helen.” He moved around and settled himself into the chair opposite, crossing one leg over another. His right foot, suspended in the air, twitched slightly. “You’ve had another shooting?”

The word ‘you’ve’ was not lost on Helen. She didn’t answer immediately. Instead she sat behind the desk and leant down to retrieve her notes from her briefcase. She gathered his testiness was due to her being out of the office. Jenkins was certainly no fan of her preference for the hands-on approach to interviewing witnesses. He preferred his DCIs to manage an investigation from a desk where they collated evidence, read witness statements taken by DCs and barked orders at their team. Losing her inspector to sick leave had only bolstered him further. He’d amped up the pressure these past few months, but she’d fought it every inch of the way. The matriarchal approach just wasn’t Helen’s style and it vexed Jenkins intensely.

Striking in appearance, his dark eyebrows and lashes contrasted with a full head of combed back, grey hair. But Helen had noticed a marked difference in him since he’d been passed over for promotion the previous year. His eyebrows hung deeper over his eyes, the frown marks more prominent in his forehead. He’d always been a private man, lacking humour (unless it was of his own making) but he emerged even more driven, focusing heavily on targets and public relations.

“Sir?”

He adjusted his position and she caught a brief whiff of his aftershave. “So, where are we?”

Helen flipped open her notes. In the short time they had worked together she’d grown accustomed to his not reading her situation reports, although he cursed like hell if they weren’t emailed to him at the appropriate time. She sat back in her chair and gave him a brief overview of the case.

“We’re building up a picture of Naomi’s life at the moment,” she said as she finished up and closed her notebook, “particularly her last hours. And we’ve circulated Jules Paton’s details nationally in an effort to locate him.”

“Right. What are we doing about the informant?”

“The phone used by the informant isn’t traceable on our systems and we can’t site it either as it’s seemingly off at the moment. The quality of the recording isn’t great, but we’re playing it to everyone that knew Naomi. Hopefully, somebody will be able to identify the voice.”

Jenkins nodded slowly and stared across at the wall for a moment, tapping his chin with his right forefingers, another habit of his.

Helen glanced past him into the incident room. She could see one of her officers calling across the room to somebody, another on the phone, others clicking at keyboards, rustling through filing cabinets. It never ceased to amaze her how a thin plasterboard wall could enable her to cut the sounds and movements from her mind.

Her eyes rested on a soft toy rat that hung over the white board listing the job allocations for that morning - somebody’s joke at Pemberton’s expense. It was incredible how quickly, when it came to humorous incidents, word got around. The jokes had started at briefing this morning: ‘I hear there’s a rat in the camp. I think I smell a rat, sergeant… ’

“Okay. That all seems in order,” Jenkins said and abruptly stood. “Let me know of any developments as soon as they occur.”

“Certainly, sir.”

He turned as he reached the door. “Don’t forget our meeting with MOCT at eleven thirty in the conference room.”

Helen stifled a groan. It hadn’t slipped her mind that Midlands Organised Crime Team, or MOCT, were coming down to assist in their cold case shooting investigations, or that the introductory meeting had been arranged for that morning. “I was going to send Pemberton on that one, sir. It’ll be a good developmental move… ”

“He’s at Memington Hall.”

Her jaw tightened. “I realise that. I’ve got the autopsy at twelve.”

“Delegate.” He turned his head to the office behind him where Spencer was on the phone, waving his arms about vigorously. “Send him.”

“Sir, I strongly… ”

“I need you there,” he said, enunciating every syllable. “You can use the press conference afterwards to appeal for witnesses to the current case. Let’s play this one down as an argument between lovers that went wrong. We won’t mention the murder weapon. With any luck we’ll have it wrapped up in a few days.” He scratched the back of his ear. “We are dealing with public perceptions here, Helen. Let’s not turn this into something it isn’t. We’re there to promote the help we are getting from MOCT to solve our outstanding murders. A united approach against gun crime. Keep it positive.”

Helen fought to keep her reserve. Autopsies were key to a murder investigation. She hated missing it. Just as she inwardly cursed the politics of modern day policing, she recalled the intelligence on Paton. He’d been associated with cocaine supply… How big a player was he? Local intelligence had been quiet for a while. Had he moved further afield? If so, he may have attracted the interest of the area organised crime team. Maybe she could salvage something here - use the meeting with MOCT to glean some background on Paton? It had to be worth a try.

“I’ll sort it,” she said.

“Good, see you there.”

Helen sighed as she watched Jenkins wander back through the main room and disappear from sight. She eased back into her chair and rolled her shoulders, listening to the cartilage in her neck pop and crackle. She was no longer thinking about politics. There was another reason why she hadn’t wanted to attend the MOCT meeting: Detective Inspector Dean Fitzpatrick.

They met a year ago, on a week’s residential training course in the West Country - ‘The Proceeds of Crime Act’. She recalled Dean entering the room that first morning; his very presence lifted the atmosphere of the group of strangers instantly. Dean possessed that special gift of acknowledging everybody in a group, saying just the right thing at the right time, pressing just the right buttons to make everyone feel special. Coupled with dark, athletically handsome looks and a killing smile, he was infectious.

After break they were paired together on a syndicate exercise. Initially wary of his charm, Helen couldn’t fail to be pleasantly surprised by his practical, easy nature and impressed with his knowledge of legal application.

As the day progressed, she slowly peeled her shutters back. Over lunch they discussed sailing. Both Helen’s boys had taken lessons the summer before at Pitsford Reservoir, just outside Hampton. Dean was a keen dinghy sailor. He laughed at her accounts of the boys learning to tack, leaning over the side of the boat to keep the sail upright. Over dinner they discussed family. He explained how he was separated from his wife and talked about his daughter, Lucy.

By the second day they were studying the role of gambling, money laundering and asset seizures in organised crime by day, and tearing each other’s clothes off by night. He was a generous, tender lover and, when exhausted from sex, they lay and talked, him about his various hobbies of golf, swimming and cooking; she about her family, her boys. She was flattered by his genuine interest in her.

When the course ended, they exchanged numbers. With Dean in Nottingham, a two hour drive north of Hampton, Helen had been sceptical about a future relationship. The following week he surprised her, by calling and texting most days. On Saturday evening he drove down, took her out for dinner to Georgios beside the canal. She remembered it well: she ate risotto, him cannelloni. It was the first time she’d worn a dress in years and it felt good. Afterwards they’d spent an exhilarating night together in a hotel nearby.

In spite of the distance between them, the relationship continued on this level for several months. A few hours grabbed here or there between shifts, the odd night together arranged around family commitments. Helen didn’t make a point of dating police officers and they agreed to keep the relationship secret for a while.

It hadn’t been the first time Helen had been drawn to a man since her late husband, John. She had indulged in a few flings over the last ten years. But there was something about Dean. Something that made her stomach flip, gave her a lust for life. Something that reminded her of how much she’d missed these past years.

After four months, Helen plucked up the courage to introduce him to her boys. It was a Saturday afternoon, they went out for pizza and stopped to take a walk in the park on the way home. Dean won Matthew over almost instantly with his knowledge of gold medals in rowing in the last Olympics. Robert, initially reluctant, soon followed when Dean produced a ball from the boot of his car and they had an impromptu game of football in the park.