A Deadly Thaw (17 page)

Lena sat in front of her father, whose face was flushed from the exertion of shutting the sash window in his surgery. It was a warm day, and the room felt stuffy. He was wearing his tweed jacket, one of the two he’d alternated since her childhood. She’d never seen him wear anything else over the checked shirts he bought from Dunne’s, the men’s outfitters on Bampton High Street.

‘This can’t go on.’

‘Are you speaking as my father or doctor?’

He sighed. ‘Of course I’m not speaking as your doctor. I’m not your GP for goodness’ sake.’ He saw Lena look around the room. ‘I’m talking to you here because I don’t want Kat to overhear us at home. She’s suspicious enough as it is and rightly so.’

Lena looked at the floor. Her father relented. ‘I’ve got something I want you to have.’

He reached into a drawer, pulled out a cloth parcel and unwrapped it. He picked up the gun and seemed to hesitate. ‘I don’t approve of guns. You know this. But I did learn to shoot when I was doing my National Service.’

‘Are you going to show me?’

‘No! This is an antique. I have no idea if it works or not. I’m letting you have it because your mum thinks it’ll give you reassurance. I trust you not to go waving it about in Bampton.’

‘If you’re not going to show me how to use it, what’s the point of giving it to me?’

‘Because guns are scary things and I think it’ll make you feel safer. Sleeping with it. And don’t go looking for ammunition.’

Lena looked down and weighed the gun in her hand.

‘Remind me again why we’re focusing on Stephanie Alton’s suicide when we’ve got the murderer of two dead men to find?’

‘Is that a serious question or have you got the hump about something?’ Connie frowned across the room at Palmer, who was looking intently into the computer.

Palmer smirked into the screen. ‘You’ve established that Lena Gray and Stephanie knew each other as teenagers. So what? Sadler knew Andrew Fisher. It’s the way things are in small towns. Remember? Everyone knows each other. It’s why you and I can go out and enjoy ourselves in the evenings. We didn’t grow up here.’

‘I grew up in Matlock.’

‘But not Bampton. It’s not the same thing, is it?’

‘So you think it’s coincidence that the real Andrew Fisher is shot, Lena disappears, and her teenage friend kills herself?’

He smiled across the room at her. ‘Coincidence. Very occasionally happens in real life, you know.’

Connie stood up and walked across to his desk. ‘It does and I am bearing it in mind. But don’t you think it’s strange? That Stephanie kills herself now? I’ve been through her past history with Julia Miles at Shallowford House. It’s grim but nothing compared to some of the stuff we’ve heard. Something’s not right. Not only with her past, but with the fact she decided to kill herself. I mean, why now?’ Palmer wasn’t listening. ‘Hello. Am I talking to myself?’

Palmer was squinting at the screen. ‘I think I’ve got something, Con.’

She frowned at the shortened use of her name. It was his fault that she was known as Connie rather than by her last name, which was the norm around here. Other female detectives didn’t have a problem getting men to refer to them by their last names. The problem was that when she had first arrived in CID, Palmer had spotted a rival and had promptly called her Connie. Probably to put her in her place. And the team had picked up on it. At least it was better than her full name, Constance, an old-fashioned moniker which she couldn’t bring herself to dislike because it was also the name of her beloved grandmother. Now Palmer was trying to call her Con. She’d have ignored him if she could. She looked over his shoulder.

‘Philip Staley is coming up on the computer. He’s not got a record, but he was arrested for assault. We nearly missed it because some idiot typed in his first name with two “l”s. So he’s in here as a
Phillip
Staley.’

‘Don’t we check dates of birth and stuff like that?’

Palmer looked smug. ‘It’s because I’m checking the date of birth that I’ve noticed it. Anyway, he was arrested for assault in June 1998.’

‘Does it say what kind of assault? Maybe Julia Miles was wrong when she said Stephanie Alton hadn’t been battered by Staley.’

‘There’s mention of a nightclub but the charges were dropped. I would guess by the accuser. It’s common enough. You know that as well as me. I’ve got the alleged victim’s name. A Rebecca Hardy. She’s probably traceable, even though it was a long time ago.’ He looked down at the keyboard. ‘We’ll need to do this together.’

Rebecca Hardy was easy to find, but when Connie called her she hadn’t wanted to meet them in her home. Nothing particularly suspicious about that, although it was slightly unusual. Women often preferred the comfort of home territory when dealing with the police.

Palmer had suggested a local coffee shop. Not Café Aroma, their preferred refuge for a decent cup of coffee. He instinctively realised that the hard plastic seating and abrupt service might not be congenial for a woman who had made a report of abuse. Instead, they were in one of the tourist cafés with wooden tables and a laminated menu. Palmer took one sip of his coffee and pushed it to one side.

Rebecca Hardy was about late thirties with pale, naturally blonde hair pulled back with a silver clip. Her freckled face was make-up free but she didn’t need it, thought Palmer. She was attractive. He looked down and saw she was wearing a wedding ring, a simple band next to an engagement ring with a pip of a diamond in it.

He let Connie take the lead. The woman barely glanced at him. He clearly made her uncomfortable. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come.

Connie was checking her notes. ‘As I mentioned on the phone, we wanted to ask you a few questions about a complaint you made against Philip Staley in 1998. You said that he assaulted you at a nightclub?’

Rebecca spread her hands out over the table. ‘It was a Saturday night. A group of us girls used to go out to a pub, Ups ’n’ Downs. It would stay open until about two in the morning. After midnight there would be a DJ, a bit of dancing. Nothing special but the only thing going on here.’

‘I can imagine.’ Connie smiled. ‘I grew up near here. Not much more there either.’

Rebecca smiled back. ‘It was a regular thing. A group of us who’d gone to school together. Well, occasionally one of us would meet a guy. To be honest, it wasn’t really the reason we were clubbing. We were just letting our hair down on a Saturday night. We were young, single. You know how it is.’

‘Of course. You met this Philip Staley there?’

Palmer frowned. That wasn’t good. Connie should let the witness bring up the accused man. He glanced at her, but she was ignoring his look.

‘Yes. I met him there. He was medium height, with curly hair. Good-looking, I suppose. We got chatting. Danced a bit. You know.’ She looked at Connie for reassurance, who nodded. ‘Well, the thing is, towards the end of the evening, when it was getting late, my friends came to find me to say they were taking a taxi home. That’s how it worked. We looked after each other, even if we’d met someone in the course of the evening. None of us would leave until we’d checked the others were okay.’

Connie nodded again. Palmer could feel weariness washing over him. He could see where this was going.

‘Anyway, Philip said he’d get me a taxi if I wanted to stay on a bit with him. The club wasn’t due to shut for an hour or so. So I agreed. It’d happened before. Not very often, but occasionally.’ She shot Palmer a glance. Seeing if he was judging her. He kept his face neutral. She took a deep breath. ‘Anyway. At the end, we went outside. Occasionally there would be a taxi waiting there but this evening, nothing. Philip said he had a car.’

‘He told you his name was Philip.’ Connie’s voice was gentle.

Rebecca nodded. ‘Yes. I didn’t find out his last name until after I went to the police. I didn’t think he would have given his real name. I mean, given what he did to me. But he had. I just knew his name was Philip, and police told me later his last name was Staley.’

‘Okay. I was just checking. Sorry I interrupted you. Carry on.’

‘Well, I went with him in his car. Stupid now when I think of it. I have two daughters. The thought of them doing what I did gives me the shivers. But I was nineteen.’

‘And what happened?’

Palmer sat still. He really shouldn’t have come. He might as well not be here.

‘He drove for a bit. Then pulled into a lay-by. Just outside Bampton, I think, but I was a bit disorientated. I couldn’t really work out where I was. Then, well, he raped me.’

Palmer pulled back his coffee and took a gulp of the cold foul brew.

‘I couldn’t believe it was happening to me. It seemed completely unreal. I remember lying there, thinking,
He’s raping me. I’m being raped
. There was absolutely nothing I could do about it.’

‘You survived.’ Connie was leaning forward towards the woman. ‘There was something you could do about it. You survived, reported the attack and got on with your life. That’s a lot of things that you did.’

‘It never went to court though, did it? And that was my fault. I withdrew the allegation.’

‘Why? It must have taken a lot of courage to report the assault to begin with. What happened?’

‘After the attack, I was on autopilot. He drove me to the top of my street. Didn’t even look at me. I got out and went home. I was still living with Mum and Dad at the time. Then the next morning I was in shock but really angry. I walked out of the house without telling anyone what had happened and went to Bampton police station. I reported the attack.’

‘How was it?’

The woman’s face took on a closed expression. ‘It was okay.’

‘Okay?’ asked Palmer.

She didn’t look at him. ‘I mean, it was obvious that I’d had sex. He hadn’t used a condom or anything and afterwards I got thinking, how could I prove it wasn’t consensual? I mean, it was his word against mine.’

‘It’s not like that with rape cases,’ said Connie.

Rebecca was shaking her head. ‘I basically got cold feet. I rang the station and said I was withdrawing my allegation. And that was that.’

Connie risked a glance at Palmer. Victims’ withdrawals of accusations of sexual assault were a huge problem in sexual assault cases.

‘It’s so long ago. I was really shocked when you rang and said you wanted to speak to me. I’d almost forgotten about it. I know it sounds improbable, but it’s the truth. I really had nearly erased that whole period from my memory.’

‘Did you ever see him again? In Bampton? It’s a small place,’ asked Palmer.

Rebecca shook her head. ‘No. Although I never went back to the club. I stopped going out completely for a while. When I would go out, I’d drive everywhere. Then I met my husband and had a family. I’ve no time for the pub now. Why are you asking? Has he done it again?’

Connie looked again at Palmer. He shook his head. ‘His name has come up in an ongoing investigation. There was a record of your allegation on file. That’s all.’

Had he done it again? Well, that was a very good question. If it was Philip Staley who had ended up in Lena’s bed, then perhaps the sex hadn’t been voluntary.

‘There’s something else that I need to tell you. It will be on the file. I told the original policewoman. He took a picture.’

Connie’s head shot up. ‘You mean a photo?’

‘Yes. With a camera. It was awful. At the end, he just reached into his pocket and pulled out a camera. Then he took a photo.’ The unasked question hovered in the air. ‘Just of my face but that was bad enough. Worse even, perhaps. Because I’m recognisable. From my face. Bastard.’

‘Yes,’ said Connie. ‘Bastard.’

Palmer sighed.
Connie
, he thought. Time to bring the interview to a conclusion.

Llewellyn’s phone rang, making him jump. He ignored it, and the call went through to his secretary. He could hear her murmured voice, and a second later she put her head through the door. ‘It’s the Assistant Chief Constable.’

He picked up the receiver and listened to the voice. At the end, he said, ‘I’ll sort it. Thanks for bringing it to my attention.’ More anxious words. ‘It’s not a problem. I’ll speak to those concerned.’ He put the receiver gently back down to rest and resisted the temptation to pick up the phone and fling it out of the window.

How did we get to this?
he wondered. He’d joined the force in the late seventies, straight from school. He’d never wanted to do another job because he’d seen how much his dad enjoyed being a copper, and he had lapped up the stories about policing in rural Derbyshire. It had been a different world then, although it had felt like an exciting new world was on their doorstep. The training courses to discover new forensic advances. Widening the recruitment pool to make the force more representative of society. But he had forgotten how many of these changes had been in response to crises. Complaints about the quality of policing. Miscarriages of justice that had led to scrutiny of investigative practices. And now ignominy was on his patch, and the question was, how much was he to blame?

He made another call.

‘Sadler here.’

‘It’s me. Just thought I’ve been swamped with paperwork this past week or so. I’ve been neglecting you. It’d be a good idea if I got a quick update on the case.’

There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘Do you want me to come down and see you?’ asked Sadler.

It was his turn to hesitate. ‘Are Palmer and Connie with you?’

‘They’re both out, I believe. I can give you an update myself though.’

‘It’s fine. Tell you what, Sadler, wait for those two to come back and then bring yourselves down here. I’m in all afternoon.’ His voice had a note of forced jollity to it. He wondered if Sadler had noticed. But he merely said, ‘Of course, sir.’

Llewellyn got up and parted the slats of his window blinds. In the two minutes he stood staring unseeingly out of the window, he had concocted a suitable narrative in his head.

‘So Lena’s a killer.’

They were sitting in Mark’s car. After James Plower and Brian had left, he’d offered to drive her home to sort out more clothes. The engine was running, but he made no move to drive off. Although the heaters were turned on full blast, Kat still couldn’t stop shivering. She pulled the hood of her coat up over her head and immediately thought of the boy who had given her the gun.

Mark sighed. ‘You know, for a therapist, you’re incredibly judgemental. Just because we know your family had a Luger, it doesn’t mean Lena pulled the trigger. There’s a long way to go yet until we discover what really happened.’

‘Only the other day you were telling me that she was implicated in this and now you’re defending her.’

‘I’m not defending her. Believe me. Based on what James told us, your father definitely had a Luger in his possession. So she’s a strong suspect but you’re the one who’s made the full leap into believing that she’s a killer.’

She turned fully towards him in her seat. ‘Well, she went to prison for it once, didn’t she? And how come I don’t know about the gun? Lena appears to have known, and even a complete stranger, James, knows that Dad had acquired a Luger. Why the hell don’t I know this?’

‘For God’s sake, Kat, don’t ask me about how families work. I’m the last person you should be asking.’

James Plower’s story was innocuous enough. Once, during a home visit, in the days when doctors did home visits, Kat’s father had asked what he did for a living. At the time, James was finishing his PhD into the facial disfigurements that afflicted soldiers returning from the Great War. Her father remembered a patient who came to the practice, an elderly man with a portion of his face missing. When this patient had died, he had passed on to his doctor a Luger he’d picked up during a battle. A simple story, and yet the ramifications were huge.

The question was, what next? ‘Do you think I should tell the police?’

Mark was silent for a moment. ‘Have they asked you again about the gun?’

‘Not since my initial statement. I told them I’d never seen the gun before, which is the truth. Do you think I should tell them about this connection?’

‘I don’t know, Kat. It’s your decision, and she’s your sister.’

Hurt, Kat turned away. ‘Don’t you care?’

‘Of course I care!’ He was shouting. ‘Have you any idea how hard this is for me? I’m trying to help find out what happened.’

Kat opened the door. ‘It’s not just practical help that I want.’

‘Kat.’ He reached over to her. ‘Don’t go. I’m worried about you.’

She couldn’t tell him now. About how she was feeling. The tumult of her emotions towards him mixed with the concern for her sister. So she did what she always advised her clients against doing. She retreated. Left him sitting in the car and stalked off towards the centre of Bampton.

There was plenty of time to think as she walked. It was a good three miles to her house and it would take her at least an hour to reach it. She didn’t expect Mark to follow her, and she was right. At least, amid all this, she hadn’t completely lost the ability to read people correctly. She walked quickly, facing the oncoming rush-hour traffic, which was still streaming into the town centre. It gave her a sense of going in the opposite direction to where everyone else was heading. There was an allegory there somewhere.

Each step brought her closer to Providence Villa, and a sense of longing began to wash over her. Because all she really wanted was to be there. Her and Lena’s house. Something was connected to that building and the years they had spent there. Lena might have absented herself voluntarily, but she was reaching out to Kat with the gifts. It was the time to start making connections.

Soon Kat was sick of walking and regretted leaving Mark so hastily. She could feel large blisters forming on the soles of her feet and wondered how strange she would look if she took off her shoes. But as she neared the house, the familiar roads she was tramping down brought a renewed sense of purpose. Finally arriving at Providence Villa, she swung open the old iron gate and halted.

She could see the ceiling lights in the living room were on. The dirty glass pendant was missing a few bulbs, but the yellow glow was unmistakable.
Right
,
she thought. She had no time to feel fear. In a fury she pulled her keys out of her pocket, put the right one in the lock and charged into the living room.

A tall man turned around. Kat saw who it was and paled. ‘What the hell are you doing in my house?’