Nothing but Trouble (52 page)

That was when Jess tipped over into panic. Launching herself out of the chair, she made a dash for the door. But Wetherby
was too fast for her. He had his arms around her body before she’d even covered a few feet.

‘You’re going nowhere, bitch,’ he hissed in her ear.

Jess twisted her right elbow, digging it hard into his ribs. He pulled in a breath. She kicked out wildly, aiming at his shins,
his ankles, his feet, and eventually managed to wriggle loose. But she only got as far as the table before he was on her again.
This time he brought her down to the floor, his weight hard on her back, the impact emptying her lungs. Before she knew what
was happening, he’d flipped her over. She saw his eyes, full of hate, blazing into hers. She felt his fists slam into her,
battering her ribs. Her arms flailed as she twisted to the side, smashing against the open paint can. It tipped over, the
white paint spilling over their arms, their shoulders, their chests.

‘Bitch!’ he raged again before bringing his fist down against her face.

The pain shot through her jaw and almost knocked her out. Her head was reeling, her brains like cotton wool. His fist came
down again, this time glancing off her cheek. She heard the crack of a tooth, could feel the blood in her mouth. It was only
instinct that made her carry on, a primitive urge for survival. In a last desperate bid to escape she jerked her knee upwards
and caught him squarely in the balls.

Squealing like a pig, he rocked back, cradling his groin in his hands. She could hear his breath coming in short, fast pants,
his mouth uttering obscenities. She had one final chance. Lunging towards the coffee table, she grabbed the wine bottle, drew
back her arm and smashed it hard against his skull. Red wine spilled down his face, mingling with the blood. He made a low
moaning noise before his eyes rolled back in his head and he lay still.

Jess crouched on the floor, stunned by the blows. The room stank of paint, of wine, of sweat and fear. Her lungs were heaving.
Pain racked every part of her body. She doubled over, thinking she was going to be sick, but only a thin, dry retching came
from her throat.

She wasn’t sure how long she remained like that. Time seemed to stretch out, to become indefinable. It might only have been
minutes before she heard the sound of a key in the door, of voices, of people coming into the flat. And then there was an
explosion of noise and activity, of people rushing past. Suddenly Harry’s arms were around her, gently pulling her up, holding
her close.

‘Jess? Jess? Are you okay?’

She leaned in against his chest, relief flooding through her. Through the thin cotton of his shirt she could feel his heart
beating.

‘Jesus,’ he said, his chin resting on the top of her head. ‘I go away for one night and you trash the damn place.’

She tried to speak, but no words came out.

Eventually, when her trembling had stopped, he lifted her chin and gazed at her face. ‘You hit him with a bottle, Vaughan.
That wasn’t very original.’

Jess looked into his eyes and forced a faltering smile to her lips. ‘Well, hun,’ she croaked. ‘If it’s good enough for Aimee
Locke, it’s good enough for me.’

It was three days since Kirsten Cope had come clean about the past, opening up a Pandora’s box of lies and deceit, murder
and betrayal. Valerie was still seething about the way she’d been used and manipulated by Simon Wetherby. He had inveigled
his way into her life, his only desire to keep a check on the progress of the investigation into Becky Hibbert’s killing,
his only motive one of self-preservation. She remembered standing on the steps of the courthouse with him and shuddered. He
had strangled Becky only twelve hours before.

Detective Superintendent Redding cleared his throat, and Valerie, who’d been gazing at the office floor, glanced up. ‘Sorry,’
she murmured. ‘I was just …’

‘It’s all right. This is a difficult time for all of us.’

Valerie nodded. She wasn’t the only one having to address the consequences of her actions. Fourteen years ago, a jury had
sent an innocent man to jail. And that jury had based their verdict on the evidence provided by Redding and his team. Today,
his face looked almost haggard. Did he feel guilty about the mistakes he had made, or was his only concern the protection
of his
own career? Already the wheels of spin were in motion, the facts being twisted, all the blame being shifted squarely on to
Wetherby’s shoulders.

‘So, you interviewed Michael Higgs again this morning?’ Redding asked.

‘Yes, he’s told us everything.’ Like Paul Rafferty, Higgs had no intention of going down as an accessory to murder. ‘Apparently,
on the day before Becky was killed, he was approached by a man claiming to work for the Streets. I’m presuming it was some
lowlife of Wetherby’s acquaintance, but Higgs didn’t know that. And, of course, he was suitably impressed by the thought of
playing with the big boys, even if it was only to act as their messenger.’

‘Messenger?’

‘Yes, this man told him that all he had to do was be at the Lincoln the following night. At some point in the evening he’d
receive a phone call telling him what to say and who to say it to. In return, he’d receive a hundred pounds and the undying
gratitude of Terry Street.’

‘Who could refuse?’

‘Who indeed. Anyway, Higgs, being the pragmatic sort, decided that rather than hanging around all night, he might as well
change his shift and get paid twice. Wetherby must have called him right after he’d murdered Becky Hibbert. Higgs had never
met him, so he didn’t recognise the voice. He was told to inform Dan Livesey that his ex was currently moonlighting as a prostitute
and that the Streets weren’t happy about it. As you know, the Streets run all the girls on the Mansfield and they don’t like
amateurs invading their patch.’

‘And Livesey was supposed to sort it out?’

‘Exactly. So he goes rushing off to the estate, mad as hell that the mother of his kids is working as a tom. I imagine that
he’s none too happy either that he’s suddenly become the focus of
the Streets’ attention. But when he gets there, Becky’s not home, or if she is, she’s not answering the door. He waits around
for a while and then takes off.’

‘Which is when Wetherby picks him up?’

‘Well, we don’t know for certain, but it seems the most likely scenario. Forensics are still checking over his car, and hopefully
we’ll pick up some traces. Wetherby needed a scapegoat, and Livesey fitted the bill perfectly. He probably killed him before
going on to his flat. He wanted to make it look as though Livesey had done a runner, so he took his passport and cleared the
place out.’

Redding’s eyes closed for a moment. It was bad enough knowing that a murderer had run rings around them, but when that murderer
was a member of the force … His next statement had a sharp accusatory edge. ‘I don’t understand how he got on and off the
Mansfield without being caught on camera. I thought the CCTV footage had been checked.’

‘It was,’ Valerie said defensively, aware that her own professionalism was being called into question. ‘He didn’t go in or
out by the main gate. According to Micky Higgs, there are other ways to get on to the estate, especially if you don’t mind
climbing over a few walls.’

‘And that didn’t occur to anyone?’

Valerie knew what was going on. Redding was trying to cover his own back, but it wasn’t going to be at her expense. ‘Dan Livesey
was there at the right time. He was Becky’s ex, he was angry with her on the night on question and he subsequently disappeared.
We had every reason to view him as a major suspect.’

Redding’s face tightened a little. He straightened the folder on his otherwise empty desk.

Valerie ploughed on. ‘Higgs and his girlfriend, Paige Fielding, both backed up the rumours about Becky working as a tom. They
had their own reasons for wanting us to believe it. They
didn’t want us to look too closely at the money we found in Becky’s flat. Kirsten Cope was a useful source of income, and
after Becky was murdered, they could see a way of tightening the screws. Ms Cope wasn’t going to want to answer any awkward
questions about why she’d been doling out cash to Becky Hibbert.’

Valerie sat back, trying to keep her cool. She might have been fooled by Wetherby, but then so had everyone else. Despite
her reservations at the time, she was relieved now that she’d inserted a possible connection to the Minnie Bright case into
one of her earlier reports. That, at least, was one decision that wouldn’t come back to haunt her.

‘Wetherby still refuses to talk,’ Redding said.

‘Yes, I heard.’ Simon Wetherby was sticking with a
no comment
response to every question that was asked. He would either deny everything when the case came to trial, or opt for an insanity
plea. Was he mad? He was certainly sick, sick and twisted. But he was also clever. He was one of those psychopaths who moved
easily through society, charming and entirely plausible.

‘Well,’ Redding said brusquely. ‘Keep me informed.’

Valerie stood up and left the office, closing the door carefully behind her. ‘Bastard!’ she muttered under her breath as she
stormed along the corridor. Part of her rage was directed at Redding, the rest at Wetherby. There was nothing worse than being
used. She walked through the incident room, went into her own office and closed the door with a lot more force than she’d
used on the superintendent’s.

It was a couple of minutes before Kieran Swann knocked and put his head round the door. ‘Safe to come in?’

Valerie was still fuming. ‘What do you want?’

He held up a plastic cup of coffee. ‘I thought you might be in need, guv.’

‘Only if it’s got half a pint of whisky in it.’

Swann came in and put the coffee on her desk. ‘That bad?’ Without being asked, he pulled out a chair and sat down on the other
side of the desk. ‘Want to share the grief?’

‘Redding’s doing what he always does – covering his own back.’

‘Hey, everything was by the book. And anyway, he’s the one with the problem. This all started with the Minnie Bright investigation.
If that hadn’t been such a botch-up, none of this would ever have happened.’

Valerie shook her head. ‘You thought Peck was guilty too. Everyone did. Wetherby knew exactly what to do to make sure there
was no doubt about it.’ She took a sip of the coffee – it was thin and watery and tasted of plastic – before putting the cup
down on the desk. ‘Do you think Kirsten Cope knew that he’d murdered Becky?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Swann said. ‘She’s not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she knew his capacity for violence. It
must have crossed her mind.’

Valerie was quiet for a moment. Then she said, ‘I went for a drink with him on Wednesday.’

‘So what? He was a colleague. There’s nothing wrong with that.’ Seeing her expression, his mouth dropped open. He stared hard
at her. ‘Ah, Jesus, you two didn’t …?’

‘No, of course not!’ But at the same time, she was aware that she might have done. She’d been charmed by him, and she’d welcomed
the attention, especially after all that business with Jessica Vaughan and Harry.

‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘The problem is that I talked to him about the Becky Hibbert murder.’

Swann gave a shrug. ‘So what?’ he said again.

She gazed back at him. ‘So we’re not supposed to discuss
ongoing investigations with anyone who isn’t involved with the case. He was digging for information and I told him everything
he wanted to know.’

‘You think Wetherby’s likely to mention it?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘He won’t,’ Swann said, smiling. ‘It would only make him look more devious. You’ve got nothing to worry about.’

Valerie smiled thinly back at him. Nothing apart from her own bad judgement. That was something she and Harry had in common.
She’d been taken in by Wetherby’s slick charm and he’d been ensnared by the seductive Aimee Locke. They had both made mistakes
and would have to live with the consequences. But as she thought about it, her mouth gradually widened into something less
cynical. Her relationship with Harry would never be easy, but that was no reason to walk away. Perhaps, despite their differences,
they weren’t such a bad match after all.

The sun was shining in Cadiz, the thin morning rays warming his body as he strolled beside the sea. He was home, and relief
flooded through his bones. Even as he’d been checking in at the airport, as he’d been boarding the plane, he’d been holding
his breath and praying. Everyone’s luck ran out some day.

From where he was walking he could see the bar with its tables and chairs set out for the morning customers. It would be another
couple of hours before they opened for business. He couldn’t see Anna, but he knew that she was inside, drinking her usual
cup of black coffee while she read through the local paper. There would be no news of Martin Locke in it, no news of a murder
in London. Spain had its own problems, its own murders, its own secrets and lies.

It was a few days now since he had stood in Kellston High Street, waiting until his daughter had parked her car and walked
away.
Then, as arranged, he had made his way down Market Road and climbed into the back of the unlocked white Ford Mustang. Fifteen
minutes later, lying down on the seat, he had passed, unobserved by the security cameras, straight into the garage of the
house in Walpole Close.

He thought about the long, brittle hours he had spent with Aimee while they waited for the man called Lind to arrive. He had
asked no questions and she had said nothing either. Her eyes had looked at him with pure contempt. He had abandoned her when
she was a child and there could be no forgiveness. They were strangers, linked by blood but not by love.

Anyway, it was over. Done and finished with. He had no idea of what was happening in London. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter.
His daughter’s fate was no longer any concern of his. It was time to get on with his life. The bill had been paid, the debt
discharged. He was free.