I Let You Go (4 page)

‘Bugger,’ he said, eyeing his desk dispassionately. The cleaner had been in, emptying the bin and making a vague attempt to dust around the mess, leaving a skirt of fluff around his in-tray. Two mugs of cold coffee flanked his keyboard and several Post-it notes stuck to his computer screen bore phone messages of varying degrees of importance. Ray plucked them off and attached them to the outside of his diary, where there was already a neon-pink Post-it reminding him to do his team’s appraisals. As if they didn’t all have enough to do. Ray fought an ongoing battle with himself about the bureaucracy of his day-to-day job. He couldn’t quite bring himself to rail against it – not when the next rank was so tantalisingly within his grasp – but neither would he ever embrace it. An hour spent discussing his personal development was an hour wasted, as far as he was concerned, especially when there was a child’s death to investigate.

As he waited for the computer to boot up, he tipped his chair on to its back legs and looked at the photo of Jacob pinned to the opposite wall. He had always kept out a photo of whoever was central to the investigation, ever since he started on CID, when his DS had reminded him gruffly that fingering a collar was all well and good, but Ray should never forget ‘what we’re doing this shit for’. The photos used to be on his desk, until Mags had come to the office one day, years ago. She’d brought him something – he couldn’t remember what now; a forgotten file, maybe, or a packed lunch. He remembered feeling annoyed by the interruption when she called from the front desk to surprise him, and the annoyance turning to guilt when he realised she’d gone out of her way to see him. They had stopped en route to Ray’s office so Mags could say hello to her old guv’nor, now a superintendent.

‘Bet it feels odd, being here,’ Ray had said, when they reached his office.

Mags had laughed. ‘It’s like I never left. You can take the girl out of the police, but you’ll never take the police out of the girl.’ Her face was animated as she walked about the office, her fingers trailing lightly over his desk.

‘Who’s the other woman?’ she had teased him, picking up the loose photograph propped up against the framed picture of her and the kids.

‘A victim,’ Ray had replied, taking the photo gently from Mags and replacing it on his desk. ‘She was stabbed seventeen times by her boyfriend because she was late getting the tea on.’

If Mags was shocked, she didn’t show it. ‘You don’t keep it in the file?’

‘I like to have it where I can see it,’ Ray said. ‘Where I can’t forget what I’m doing, why I’m working these hours, who it’s all for.’ She had nodded at that. She understood him better than he realised, sometimes.

‘But not next to our photograph. Please, Ray.’ She had reached out a hand to take the photo again, looking around the office for somewhere more suitable. Her eyes settled on the redundant corkboard at the back of the room and, taking a drawing pin from the pot on his desk, she had fixed the picture of the smiling dead woman decisively in the middle of the board.

And there it stayed.

The smiling woman’s boyfriend had long since been charged with murder, and a steady succession of victims had taken her place. The old man beaten black and blue by teenage muggers; the four women sexually assaulted by a taxi driver; and now Jacob, beaming in his school uniform. All of them relying on Ray. He scanned the notes he had made in his daybook the night before, preparing for this morning’s briefing. They didn’t have a lot to go on. As his computer beeped to tell him it had finally booted up, Ray mentally shook himself. They might not have a long list of leads, but there was still work to be done.

Shortly before ten o’clock, Stumpy and his team trooped through the door into Ray’s office. Stumpy and Dave Hillsdon took up residence in two of the low chairs grouped around the coffee table, while the others stood at the back of the room, or leaned against the wall. The third chair had been left empty in an unspoken nod to chivalry, and Ray was amused to see that Kate ignored the offering and joined Malcolm Johnson to stand at the back. Their numbers had been temporarily boosted by two officers on loan from shift, looking uncomfortable in hastily borrowed suits, and PC Phil Crocker from the Collision Investigation Unit.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ Ray said. ‘I won’t keep you long. I’d like to introduce Brian Walton from Party One, and Pat Bryce from Party Three. It’s good to have you lads, and there’s plenty to do, so just muck in.’ Brian and Pat nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Okay,’ Ray continued. ‘The purpose of this briefing is to revisit what we know about the Fishponds hit-and-run, and where we go next. As you can imagine, the chief is all over this one like a rash.’ He looked at his notes, although he knew the contents by heart. ‘At 1628 on Monday, 26 November 999 operators picked up a call from a woman living in Enfield Avenue. She had heard a loud bang, and then a scream. By the time she got outside, it was all over, and Jacob’s mother was crouching over him in the road. The ambulance response time was six minutes, and Jacob was pronounced dead at the scene.’

Ray paused for a moment, to let the gravity of the investigation sink in. He glanced at Kate, but her expression was neutral, and he didn’t know if he was relieved or saddened that she had managed to build her defences so successfully. She wasn’t the only one apparently devoid of emotion. A stranger scanning the room might assume the police couldn’t care less about the death of this little boy, when Ray knew it had touched them all. He continued with the briefing.

‘Jacob turned five last month, soon after starting school at St Mary’s, in Beckett Street. On the day of the hit-and-run, Jacob had been at an after-school club, while his mum was working. Her statement says they were walking home, and chatting about the day, when she let go of Jacob’s hand and he ran across the road towards their house. From what she’s said it’s something he’s done before – he didn’t have good road sense and his mum always made sure she held on to him when they were near a road.’ Except this one time, he added silently. One tiny lapse of concentration, and she wouldn’t ever be able to forgive herself for it. Ray shuddered involuntarily.

‘What did she see of the car?’ Brian Walton asked.

‘Not a lot. She claims that, far from braking, the car was speeding up when it hit Jacob, and that she narrowly avoided being hit as well; in fact she fell and hurt herself. The attending officers noticed she had injuries, but she refused treatment. Phil, can you talk us through the scene?’

The only uniformed officer in the room, Phil Crocker was a collision investigator, and with years of experience on the Roads Policing department he was Ray’s go-to man for all traffic matters.

‘There’s not much to say.’ Phil shrugged. ‘The wet weather means no tyre marks, so I can’t give you an estimate on speed, or tell you if the vehicle was braking prior to impact. We seized a piece of plastic casing about twenty metres from the point of collision, and the vehicle examiner has confirmed it’s from the fog light of a Volvo.’

‘That sounds encouraging,’ Ray said.

‘I’ve given the details to Stumpy,’ Phil said. ‘Other than that, I’m afraid I’ve got nothing.’

‘Thanks, Phil.’ Ray picked up his notes again. ‘Jacob’s post-mortem report shows he died from blunt force trauma. He had multiple fractures and a ruptured spleen.’ Ray had attended the autopsy himself, less because of the need for evidential continuity, and more because he couldn’t bear to think of Jacob alone in the cold mortuary. He had looked without seeing, keeping his eyes away from Jacob’s face, and focusing on the evidence the Home Office pathologist had issued in staccato sound bites. They were both glad when it was over.

‘Judging from the point of impact, we’re looking at a small vehicle, so we can rule out people-carriers or four-by-fours. The pathologist recovered fragments of glass from Jacob’s body, but I understand there’s nothing to tie it to a particular vehicle – isn’t that right, Phil?’ Ray glanced at the collision investigator, who nodded.

‘The glass itself isn’t vehicle-specific,’ Phil said. ‘If we had an offender they might have matching particles in their clothing – it’s almost impossible to get rid of. But we didn’t find any glass at the scene, which suggests the windscreen cracked on impact, but didn’t shatter. Find me the car, and we’ll match it to the pieces on the victim, but without that…’

‘But it does at least help to confirm what damage might be on the car,’ Ray said, trying to put a positive spin on the few lines of enquiry they did actually have. ‘Stumpy, why don’t you run through what’s been done so far?’

The DS looked at the wall of Ray’s office, where the investigation played out in a series of maps, charts and flipchart sheets, each with a list of actions. ‘House-to-house was done on the night, and again the following day by shift. Several people heard what they’ve described as a “loud bang”, followed by a scream, but no one saw the car. We’ve had PCSOs out on the school run talking to parents, and we’ve letter-dropped in the streets either side of Enfield Avenue, appealing for witnesses. The roadside signs are still out, and Kate’s following up on the few calls we’ve had as a result of those.’

‘Anything useful?’

Stumpy shook his head. ‘It’s not looking good, boss.’

Ray ignored his pessimism. ‘When does the
Crimewatch
appeal go out?’

‘Tomorrow night. We’ve got a reconstruction of the accident, and they’ve put together some whizzy slides with what the car might look like, then they’ll run the studio piece the DCI did with their presenter.’

‘I’ll need someone to stay late to pick up any strong leads as soon as it airs, please,’ Ray said to the group. ‘The rest we can get to in slow-time.’ There was a pause and he looked around expectantly. ‘Someone’s got to do it…’

‘I don’t mind.’ Kate waved a hand in the air and Ray gave her an appreciative glance.

‘What about the fog light Phil mentioned?’ Ray said.

‘Volvo have given us the part number, and we’ve got a list of all the garages who have been sent one in the last ten days. I’ve tasked Malcolm with contacting them all – starting with the local ones – and getting the index numbers of cars they’ve been fitted to since the collision.’

‘Okay,’ Ray said. ‘Let’s keep that in mind when we’re making enquiries but remember it’s just one piece of evidence – we can’t be absolutely certain it’s a Volvo we’re looking for. Who’s leading on CCTV?’

‘We are, boss.’ Brian Walton raised his hand. ‘We’ve seized everything we could get our hands on: all the council CCTV, and anything from the businesses and petrol stations in the area. We’ve gone for just the half-hour before the collision and the half-hour afterwards, but even so there are several hundred hours to get through.’

Ray winced at the thought of his overtime budget. ‘Let me see the list of cameras,’ he said. ‘We won’t be able to watch all of it, so I’d like your thoughts on what to prioritise.’

Brian nodded.

‘Plenty to be getting on with, then,’ Ray said. He gave a confident smile, despite his misgivings. They were a fortnight on from the ‘golden hour’ immediately following a crime, when chances of detection were highest, and although the team was working flat out, they were no further forward. He paused, before breaking the bad news. ‘You won’t be surprised to hear that all leave has been cancelled until further notice. I’m sorry, and I’ll do what I can to make sure you all get some time with your families over Christmas.’

There was a murmur of dissent as everyone filed out of the office, but no one complained, and Ray knew they wouldn’t. Although no one voiced it, they were all thinking of what Christmas would be like for Jacob’s mother this year.

My determination falters almost as soon as we leave Bristol. I hadn’t considered where I might go. I head blindly west, thinking perhaps I might go to Devon, or to Cornwall. I think wistfully of childhood holidays; building sandcastles on the beach with Eve, sticky with ice lollies and sun cream. The memory draws me towards the sea; calls me away from the tree-lined avenues of Bristol, away from the traffic. I feel an almost physical fear of these cars that can’t wait to overtake as the bus pulls into the station. I wander aimlessly for a while, then hand over ten pounds to a man in a kiosk by the Greyhound coaches who doesn’t care where I’m going any more than I do.

We cross the Severn Bridge, and I look down at the swirling mass of bilge-grey water that is the Bristol Channel. The coach is quietly anonymous, and here no one is reading the
Bristol Post
. No one is talking about Jacob. I lean back into my seat. I’m exhausted but I don’t dare close my eyes. When I sleep I’m assaulted by the sights and sounds of the accident; by the knowledge that had I been just a few minutes earlier, it would never have happened.

The Greyhound coach is going to Swansea, and I steal a glance around to see the company I’m keeping. They are students, in the main, plugged into music and engrossed in magazines. A woman my age is reading through papers and making neat notes in the margins. It seems ludicrous that I’ve never been to Wales, but now I’m glad I have no connection here. It is the perfect place for a new beginning.

I’m the last to get off, and I wait at the bus station until the coach has left, the adrenalin of my departure a distant memory. Now that I’ve made it as far as Swansea, I have no idea where to go. A man is slumped on the pavement; he looks up and mumbles something incoherent, and I back away. I can’t stay here, and I don’t know where I’m going, so I start walking. I play a game with myself: I’ll take the next left, no matter where it goes; the second right; straight ahead at the first crossroads. I don’t read the road signs, taking instead the smallest road offered at each junction, the least-travelled option. I feel light-headed – almost hysterical. What am I doing? Where am I going? I wonder if this is what it’s like to lose one’s mind, and then I realise I don’t care. It doesn’t matter any more.

I walk for miles, leaving Swansea far behind. I hug the hedgerow when cars pass, which they do with decreasing frequency now that the evening is drawing in. My holdall is slung on to my back, like a rucksack, and the straps carve grooves into my shoulders, but my pace is steady and I don’t stop. All I can hear is my breathing, and I begin to feel calmer. I don’t let myself think about what has happened, or where I’m going, I just walk. I pull my phone from my pocket and, without looking to see how many missed calls it shows, I drop it into the ditch beside me, where it splashes into the pooled water. It is the last piece connecting me to my past, and almost immediately I feel freer.