The Waiting Game (28 page)

It was a perfect autumn morning. The grey clouds he’d woken up to had cleared; with the sun came a renewed feeling of optimism as Raj walked up the hill to the top of Greenwich Park. The place was alive with colour. Grass green and lush from recent rain, trees waving in the breeze, showing off their autumn plumes of bronze and red and orange. A final blast before the leaves faded and fell.

He’d arranged to meet Abby in the Pavilion tea house at the top of the park. When he arrived, bang on time, she was already waiting. Sitting outside, cup of tea and a cake on the table in front of her. Of course she was there first. In all the time he’d known her, she’d never shown up late for anything.

‘Raj.’ She jumped up when she saw him, ran across and embraced him. He hugged her back, holding her a fraction too
long. When he let her go, she was still smiling, but he could see the concern in her face too. His fault. Shouldn’t have acted so bloody happy to see her. Best not to tell her she was the first person he’d spoken to since Ellen had been in his apartment.

Aidan was gone. Left a message on Raj’s answer phone, telling him he’d had enough of being treated like shit. Told Raj not to bother calling back. So he hadn’t. Stayed in his apartment instead, drinking beer, avoiding the phone calls from his sister and parents, and generally feeling sorry for himself.

‘You look tired,’ Abby said.

‘Not sleeping so well,’ he replied. ‘Apart from that, I’m fine. Heard you arrested Collier?’

‘That’s why you wanted to see me?’

She looked disappointed, although he couldn’t work out why. Surely she didn’t think… Nah. He dismissed the idea almost as soon as he thought it. They were mates. Nothing more than that. Besides, Abby knew. They’d bumped into each other at a club in New Cross one night. Midway through a long kiss, he’d looked up and seen her across the room, staring at him. He’d been scared at first, but that passed quickly when she raised her glass, gave him a silent toast and winked. They’d never spoken about it since and – thankfully – she’d never told anyone else. His private life was no one’s business except his own. He intended to keep it that way.

‘Is that a problem?’ he asked.

She shook her head, frowning. ‘I suppose not. It’s just,
sometimes, you and Ellen… Oh forget it. It doesn’t matter. Come on. Let’s sit down and you can tell me what you want.’

‘How sure are you that Collier’s your man?’ Raj asked.

He sat down, leaned across the table and picked off a chunk of her chocolate cake. She pushed her cup towards him. ‘Want to drink my tea as well?’

‘Come on, Abs. Don’t be like that. Tell me about Collier. And then I’ll be on my way again. Promise.’

‘Unbelievable,’ she muttered. ‘Yes, he’s been charged. Yes, we think he killed Chloe. And no, we’re not looking for any other suspects. Enough for you? Or would you like me to steal files from work and bring those to you the next time? So you can go through them and make sure we’re all doing the job we’re being paid to do.’

‘What about Carl Jenkins?’

‘He didn’t do it,’ Abby said. ‘Listen, Raj. We’ve got enough evidence to prove Collier did it. CPS already has the file and they’re going to prosecute. They’re pretty confident. Carl Jenkins didn’t do it.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job. Of course not. And if I’m honest, Abs, I don’t think it was Jenkins either. But I keep thinking about how Chloe was killed. It was so brutal. I mean, I can see – sort of – how Collier might have lost it and attacked her in a fit of rage. But to find the wire, to bring it with him to her house with the specific intention of killing her. I can’t see it.’

‘Maybe you can’t,’ Abby said. ‘But it’s what happened.’

‘He adored her,’ Raj said. ‘Would you do that to someone you adored?’

‘I’m not a psycho,’ Abby said.

‘He’s admitted everything else, right?’ Raj said.

Abby nodded. ‘Breaking into her house those different times, yes. Although his motive’s not very clear. He’s changed his story a few times. First off, he said he did it to protect her. Later, he admitted he was motivated by the desire to get her to notice him.’

‘And yet he still claims he didn’t kill her,’ Raj said.

‘Of course that’s what he says.’ Abby’s phone rang. She stood up, walked away from him before answering. The sense of being left out hurt, even though he knew she had no choice.

He watched her as she listened to whoever was calling. Watched her face shift from concentration to shock. The call didn’t last long. She hung up and ran back to the table.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

‘What is it?’

She shook her head but he reached out and grabbed her hand. When she looked at him, her face was pale.

‘It’s Nathan Collier,’ she said. ‘He’s dead.’

Ellen stood on the beach, watching a small yellow boat chug its way across the water. A man and woman, both wearing waterproofs, stood on the deck. From the beach, Ellen could make out the sound of their voices but not the words. She wondered, briefly, who they were and where they were going.

Vinny used to speak about getting a boat.

‘We live by the river,’ he’d say. ‘It’s crazy not to make the most of that. And the kids would love it.’

At the time, Ellen thought the kids were too young. She worried it would be too dangerous, taking them out onto the swirling, dangerous currents of the Thames. She’d promised Vinny it was something they would do later, when the kids were older. She wished now she’d just said yes and let him do it.

She took out her phone and opened the photo she’d been sent. Stared at herself asleep in the bed, hating herself for not waking. Hating the person who’d done this even more. It was all connected. Chloe, Adam, this photo. Ellen didn’t know how or why, but she would find out.

She heard footsteps behind her. Quickly, she dropped the phone into her bag.

A familiar voice. ‘They told me you were down here.’

Ger Cox came and stood beside her.

‘How are you?’

‘I’ve been better,’ Ellen said.

‘I need to know what you were doing here,’ Ger said.

‘He called me.’

‘How did he get your number?’ Ger asked.

‘I came to see him,’ Ellen said. ‘I was following up Monica’s claim that he might have been the person who’d broken into her house.’

‘Even though I told you not to spend time on that?’

‘I did it in my own time,’ Ellen said. ‘But I should have told you. Sorry.’

‘Sorry’s nowhere near good enough,’ Ger said.

‘There’s more,’ Ellen said. ‘The silver chain by the body. It’s not Adam Sharpe’s.’

Ger rubbed a hand across her face and sighed. ‘Go on.’

She watched Ger watching her. Watched the compassion mixed with frustration in Ger’s blue eyes. The frustration she
could forgive. The compassion less so.

‘It belongs to Jim O’Dwyer,’ Ellen said. ‘It was his father’s. He never takes it off.’

A seagull swooped down to the surface of the water – white against the grey – and rose, moments later, with a fish flapping uselessly in its huge beak. Another bird swooped in, came up empty-beaked and flew away, its angry screeches filling the air. Further out, the little boat continued its journey east. Ellen watched until it was nothing more than a speck on the grey, glassy ocean that stretched from here, across to France and beyond, spreading out across the entire world.

The murder had happened on Canterbury’s patch and the local DCI, William Harvey, made it clear Ellen and Ger were here as observers only. They spent the last hour standing around outside, watching detectives, SOCOs and the local pathologist go about their business.

Everything was spiralling out of control. Ellen was lost, unable to find a way through the mess. Control was everything. Without it, you were at the mercy of circumstance.

She hadn’t told Ger about the photo. Wasn’t ready to tell anyone about that until she knew what it meant and who had sent it. When she found out, she wanted to deal with it herself. Didn’t trust anyone else to handle it the way it should be. By making sure the person who’d invaded her home paid for what
they’d done. If that turned out to be Jim O’Dwyer, then God help him. She’d make him sorry he’d ever been born.

Ger had produced a pack of cigarettes, which both women worked their way through while they waited.

‘I can’t afford to lose anyone else,’ Ger said. ‘But I don’t see how you can stay working on this case.’

Yesterday, she’d really believed the end was in sight. Now, the whole case had blown up in her face. A shit storm with her and Jim at its centre. He was being questioned right now at Lewisham. If he wasn’t able to prove he hadn’t been here earlier today, the next step would be to transfer him to Canterbury for further questioning. Meanwhile, Ellen was waiting to give a statement.

Ger handed Ellen another cigarette. When both women had lit up again, they talked about Nathan Collier. The call had come in half an hour ago. Collier had used the sheet from his bed to hang himself from the barred window of his cell. He’d tied one end of the sheet to the bars, the other around his neck. Then he’d knelt on the ground and leaned his body away from the window, slowly strangling himself. Another statistic in the growing number of prisoner suicides in the UK.

‘Don’t you hate it when they do that before the trial?’ Ger said. ‘Chloe’s only chance of justice. Gone. There won’t be a trial now. Her poor mother.’

‘Must be some consolation to know he won’t ever do it to someone else,’ Ellen said.

‘Suicide’s such a cop out,’ Ger said. ‘Shows what a cowardly creep he was. What’s wrong, Ellen? You look shocked. You think I should feel sorry for him?’

‘I just think suicide’s always sad,’ Ellen said. ‘No matter what the circumstances. Anyway, Chloe wasn’t the only one who deserved a trial. Collier claimed he didn’t kill her. Some people might say he deserved the chance to clear his name.’

‘You’re starting to sound like Roberts,’ Ger said. ‘Her influence must be rubbing off on you. I thought you were more cynical than that. Collier killed her. We both know that. The trial would have proved it once and for all. Now, Chloe’s family will never know for sure. And that pisses me off. It should piss you off too. If it doesn’t, I’m surprised.’

The Canterbury DCI came out of the house and started walking towards them. A short, skinny bloke with bandy legs, he walked like he’d just stepped off a horse.

‘DCI Cox,’ he said. ‘A word, if I may?’

Ger threw her cigarette to the ground and winked at Ellen.

‘Wish me luck.’

Ellen watched the two DCIs get stuck into the discussion over how the case would be run. In theory, this decision was made higher up the command chain. In practice, if Ger and her Canterbury counterpart could agree first, their recommendations would be taken up by the people who mattered and the case could be conducted in a manner that everyone was happy with.

When Ger had finished talking and started walking back to
her, Ellen could see from Ger’s face she wasn’t going to get what she wanted.

‘Canterbury will take this,’ Ger said. ‘The murder happened on their turf and, for now, we’ve got nothing at all linking it with our own investigation.’

‘What about Monica?’ Ellen asked. ‘We should be dragging her in for questioning. She hated her father. She did this, Ger. I can feel it.’

‘Your judgement’s clouded,’ Ger said. ‘You’re not in any position to tell me what I should be doing right now. Is that clear? As far as this murder is concerned, I don’t want you anywhere near it.’

‘What about the girlfriend?’ Ellen asked. ‘Bel.’

‘Billy’s already onto it,’ Ger said.

‘Billy?’

‘It’s his name,’ Ger said. ‘You got a problem with that?’

She had a problem with all of it. The way Ger had let DCI ‘Billy’ Harvey take over the investigation without a fight. The way Ellen herself had been sidelined, despite the fact that if it wasn’t for her, Adam Telford would still be lying in there without anyone having any idea he was dead.

‘I should be part of this,’ Ellen said. ‘I was the one who found him. I’m the only one who’s even met his girlfriend. I can help. It’s stupid to put a blanket ban on any input from me.’

And I’m the one who’s being stalked by the same person who killed Chloe, she nearly said. Instead, she stopped herself just in
time. Ger would use it as another reason why Ellen’s judgement was being ‘clouded’.

‘Give me bloody patience,’ Ger said. ‘You’ll do as I tell you, DI Kelly. You are not part of this investigation because you have a complicated relationship with our chief suspect. Billy knows you’ve got information he can use. I told him you’re ready to make a statement. That you’ll tell him everything you know about Adam Telford, his daughter, his girlfriend and Jim O’Dwyer. Is that okay with you?’

‘Fine,’ Ellen said, knowing she didn’t have any choice in the matter.

Ger nodded. ‘Good. Let’s go.’

Ellen gave her statement, answered all DCI Harvey’s questions and agreed to be available if there was anything else they wanted to know. When she was finished, it was a relief to get into her car and drive away. The journey home was difficult. Traffic was heavy and she was driving with the sun in her eyes. Ahead of her, the city burned bright beneath the setting autumn sun, shimmering and shivering in the hazy light, like a mirage. Unreal, untouchable and utterly beautiful.

It was late by the time Ellen arrived back in London. The guilt gnawed away at her as she parked outside her parents’ house. Guilt about her parents, who had looked after her children for the entire day and were too old to be doing that for her. Guilt about her children, who she’d hardly spent any time with so far this weekend. Guilt about the fact she’d arranged for the children to spend another night at her parents’ house because she was too scared of what might happen to them if they slept in their own beds.

She climbed out of the car and stretched. Her body ached and her mind was still back at the house in Whitstable. She’d thought of calling into the station on the way back but decided against it. Even if Jim was still in custody, it would be madness to try and speak to him.

She didn’t know how she was going to drag up the reserves of energy required for the quality time she’d told herself she needed to spend with her children that evening. She wondered if quality time included pizza and a movie. Decided very quickly it probably did.

Before going inside, she called Abby.

‘Monica has an alibi,’ Abby said. ‘She was with her boyfriend all day. We spoke to him and he confirmed they’ve been together since last night. Which makes it unlikely she drove out there this morning and killed her father.’

‘Unless the boyfriend’s lying,’ Ellen said.

‘Of course,’ Abby replied. ‘And I’ll keep on top of it, Ellen. I promise.’

Ellen had her own keys for her parents’ house and she used these now to let herself in. She stood in the hallway for a moment, listening to the sounds of her family inside the house. She could hear her father, in the sitting room, putting on the monster voice she remembered from her own childhood. This was followed soon after by her children’s loud squeals. She could see it without having to open the door: her father – arms stretched out, hands curled into claws – chasing the children, cornering them behind the sofa and going in for the Tickle of Death. Pat pretended to be too old for it, but he always joined in eventually.

Further down the hall, the kitchen door was open and she could hear more voices. Her mother and another woman. Ellen assumed the stranger was Marie Molloy, Bridget Flanagan’s closest
friend and a regular visitor to 10 Fingal Street. Both women spent hours barricaded inside the kitchen, drinking cups of tea and putting the world to rights. As she drew closer, she changed her mind. Marie Molloy came from West Cork and her strong, sing-song accent was as unmistakeable as it was – for Ellen, at least – impenetrable.

The woman in the kitchen, speaking now, had a deeper, richer voice than Marie’s and the accent definitely wasn’t West Cork. Vaguely, Ellen thought she’d heard the voice somewhere before. She couldn’t place it. At first.

When she pushed open the door and walked into the kitchen, the moment of recognition was so sudden and unexpected, she thought at first she might be imagining it.

‘Ellen.’ Her mother stood up, smiling and oblivious. ‘We’ve been waiting for you. How was your day?’

Unable to answer, Ellen stood in the doorway, staring at the woman. Random images tumbled towards her. Jim slamming his fist into a wall; Chloe’s blue, bloated face and her wide-open, empty eyes; Monica smiling at her, dressed in nothing except a small red towel; Jim’s chain lying on the floor by Adam Telford’s dead body; Monica holding the photo of Vinny in Ellen’s sitting room; the confetti of torn petals scattered across a back garden. And the photo on Ellen’s phone.

Suddenly, she knew.

Monica was standing up too and saying something. Ellen didn’t hear the words, didn’t want to. She moved forward, across
the kitchen and grabbed Monica Telford by the collar.

‘Get out of my house.’

Monica smiled and Ellen’s hand curled into a fist that she pushed into Monica’s cheek.

‘Ellen, stop it!’

Her mother’s voice sounded very far away. Ellen couldn’t have stopped, even if she’d wanted to.

‘Call the police,’ Ellen said, rattling off the number for the emergency line.

‘Ellen?’ Fear in her mother’s voice now.

‘Now, Mum.’

She repeated the number for her mother and pressed her fist deeper into Monica’s face.

‘I know everything,’ Ellen said. ‘You killed Chloe. And you killed your father. I don’t know why you did it, but I know it was you. Just like I know you were the person who broke into my house the other night. You think you’re so clever. You’re not. You’re a psychopath. There’s a big difference.’

Behind her, she could hear her mother dialling the number, then giving her name and address.

‘You’re mad,’ Monica said, keeping her voice low so only Ellen could hear her. ‘Everyone knows it and now you’re proving it. I haven’t done anything, Ellen. All I’ve ever done is ask you to help me. It’s not my fault you let your own pathetic jealousy get in the way of doing your job.’

She should have felt it then. The fear you were meant to feel
when you were in danger. Maybe she would have, if the anger hadn’t consumed everything else.

‘Five minutes,’ her mother said.

She could last five minutes.

‘You stay here,’ Ellen said to her mother. Then to Monica, ‘You. Out front with me.’

Still holding Monica’s collar, Ellen dragged her out of the kitchen, along the hall, past the laughter and screams and growls from the sitting room and out into the front garden.

Outside, Monica tried to shake her off but Ellen held on tight.

‘This is insane,’ Monica said. ‘All I did was drop in for a chat. Where’s the harm in that? You know, until you found out about Jim, I really thought we were becoming friends. What happened?’

Ellen didn’t answer. She scanned the road, willing the response team to be on time. Every detective in CID had a special number they could call if they needed to. Until this week, Ellen had never had to call it before. Now, she’d just called it a second time.

She was still angry, but there was a focus to it now. It wasn’t enough that she knew. She needed to prove it. To do that, she needed to show – above all – that this wasn’t some crazy obsession of hers based on misplaced jealousy. That’s what Monica wanted everyone to think. Ellen could see that. What she couldn’t work out – not yet – was why.

She let Monica go, stepped away quickly, unable to bear being close to her.

‘Go,’ she said.

‘Just like that?’ Monica asked. Was it Ellen’s imagination or did Monica sound disappointed. ‘Are you sure you’re doing the right thing, Ellen? Just a few moments ago you were accusing me of a double murder and a burglary. I’m confused.’

Ellen heard sirens. Far away but getting closer. She could see how it would play out. Monica protesting her innocence, claiming she’d done nothing wrong. Telling them about her relationship with Jim, Ellen’s pathetic jealousy, making it look like Ellen was the one with all the problems.

Monica took a step forward. A memory came to Ellen. That night in her sitting room. Monica’s face too close to hers. The smell of her perfume clogging up the air. Ellen resisted the urge to move back, away from her.

‘What happened?’ Monica asked. ‘What did I do to you that was so bad?’

‘I told you to go,’ Ellen said.

Monica nodded and Ellen thought she’d won. Then Monica smiled.

‘Your father told me about his garden,’ Monica said. ‘Poor man. He seemed so upset. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it, what some people are capable of?’

The sirens were louder now, the car screeching around the corner into Fingal Street. The noises mixing with the roaring inside Ellen’s head. Monica’s face, still smiling, even as Ellen went for her, fist driving forward to smash away every trace of that smug smile.

A hand shot out, stopping her before she could do any damage. A man’s voice – her father’s – shouting at her, begging her to stop. Her father’s hands on her shoulders, dragging her away. Car doors slammed shut, footsteps loud as two uniformed officers came running towards her, batons already out, waiting and ready to stop anything bad happening.

No idea they were already far too late for that.