Someone To Save you (34 page)

‘To be honest, it was a bit disturbing,’ Sam admitted.

‘It’s not one of my favourites,’ she revealed. ‘He used to be a highly skilled portrait and landscape artist - sold many of his paintings at exhibitions for several hundred pounds apiece. This is one of his,’ she said, gesturing to the wall behind upon which was hung an impressive beachfront vista in water colour. ‘But since Margaret’s death, his drawings tended to reflect his inner torment. It became his way of communicating with me and the world I suppose. He wouldn’t really talk to me about his feelings, so I would try and understand what he was going through by examining his artwork.’

‘Can we see some more?’ Sam asked.

She looked surprised by the request. ‘Of course. It’s all upstairs in his art room.’

Marcus exchanged a knowing glance with Sam as they followed her upstairs. It had been a clever way of gaining access to more of the house. But also, Sam did wonder, if art was his prime method of communication, then maybe, just maybe, there would be something somewhere in his art that might help explain more.

‘I’m thinking of organising an exhibition of Richard’s art,’ she said as they reached the top of the stairs. ‘I just don’t think that this should all go to waste. It deserves to be enjoyed by the public, and I hope that as many people as possible can enjoy Richard’s talents.’

Sam and Marcus emerged into the room. Unlike the rest of the house, this room in no way could be described as pristine. It was a working art studio. There was no furniture. The floor was covered with white sheets dotted with paint and there were pieces of art everywhere. Some of it hung on the walls, but most was stacked up along all edges of the room, three of four canvases deep. Three stands were there, each with half completed art works on them.

Sam looked around in wonderment as Marcus examined a sketching from a respectful distance of what looked like a moonscape.

Victoria smiled that same smile as before. ‘Richard had his own art studio at his previous home, so when he moved in, I cleared some space for him. He spent most of his time up here. As you can see, he was extremely productive.’

Sam nodded, still surveying the room and its contents. Suddenly one of the artworks caught his eye and he moved towards it. It was in the far corner, propped up against the wall.

He recognised something in it. ‘My God.’ The hairs on the back of his neck bristled.

‘That’s one of the last complete artworks he did,’ the woman said as Sam crouched down at the canvas.

The sketch was of a young man’s face, eyes bulging and tongue flopping down from his mouth. A noose hugged his neck, below which the words I did it. I’m the killer, were etched.

I did it. I’m the killer.

The exact words Richard Friedman had spoken up on the roof, just before slitting his throat.

Sam reached out and held the frame, his breathing shallow. In the background was the silhouette of a figure, arms out almost at right angles, which seemed to be looming over the foreground somehow.

He’d seen that figure before.

Sam turned to look at Victoria.

‘Is this the person who killed Richard’s wife?’

She nodded. ‘Wayne Cartwright. I can hardly bear to say the words.’

‘Did Richard draw this after he found out the news of his death?’

‘Yes.’

‘What does it mean? ‘Who’s the figure in the background?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

Sam turned back to the artwork. He looked again at the man’s anguished face and the linked rope around his neck. Then suddenly he realised. He turned the canvas upside down, stifling a gasp, wanting to cry out. The noose around the man’s neck – it wasn’t a rope.

It was Cathy’s necklace.

Detective Inspector Paul Cullen sat down on the edge of the bed, looked around the sparsely furnished hotel room and exhaled loudly, running his hands through his thinning hair. This wasn’t how he wanted to be spending his fortieth birthday. He hoped that things could be patched up between him and his wife, but wondered whether that would ever happen. There had been no birthday phone call, not even a text. Hell, even DS Beswick had managed a text message of congratulations, and he was still in his sick bed.

He pulled out his mobile and checked the caller display, just in case he had missed a call from her, and more likely from the analysis lab. They’d had the audio from Sam Becker’s computer for over twenty-four hours. Surely by now they must have had time to sharpen the sound and produce a definitive transcript. It couldn’t be that difficult.

Cullen turned his attention back to Sam Becker. Little of this case made sense, but one thing that he’d been convinced of from the beginning was that Sam was trustworthy. He believed what he said. Even when it seemed that there was something really wrong about the situation, he’d fought against doubting Sam. Was he just being blinded by the guy’s profession? If he’d been a builder, not a doctor, would he have been so sure that he was telling the truth?

There was a rasping knock on the door that ripped Cullen from his musings. ‘Hello? Room clean.’

Cullen took his cue, grabbed his jacket and headed out. There wasn’t anywhere to go, but it wasn’t healthy to hang around on your own in hotel rooms on such a day. Better to get outside and at least pretend that you were with other people. He’d only got as far as a few blocks away, walking towards central London, when the call came that he’d been waiting for.

‘Detective Inspector Cullen?’

‘Speaking.’

‘We’ve completed the analysis on the audio file. Are you able to come over now? We’ve got some surprising findings.’

Cullen smiled – nothing about this case surprised him anymore. ‘I’ll be there right away.’

Cullen took a taxi and was at the laboratory in less than fifteen minutes. The building, a grim nineteen sixties affair that resembled an over-sized public lavatory block, was situated down a back street just off Kensington High Street in West London. It was as if the planners had always intended to hide this deeply ugly building from public view. The windows were stained black with sun-baked London filth. They didn’t look like they’d seen a cleaner in a long time.

But as Cullen had told himself just that morning as he’d looked in the mirror – it was what went on in the inside that counted. You might look like terrible, over the hill, but if it was all working inside, then you were alright. Hell, it might even lull others into a sense of false security.

This building was certainly a case in point. The vile exterior hid the beauty of the work taking place inside - work that solved crimes, brought murderers and rapists to justice, and placed public safety at its heart. The unit carried out analysis for the British Transport Police, investigating all crimes on Britain’s transportation network. This included not only forensic investigation, but increasingly analysis of digital data such as that gained from CCTV. They were well-placed to investigate Sam Becker’s audio file.

Cullen approached reception, gave his name and waited impatiently for his host to arrive. A minute or so later, a short balding man appeared, introducing himself as Charles Holloway. He didn’t speak as they headed for the stairs, descending into the basement, through two sets of double-doors, and into a small window-less meeting room.

The man gestured to one of the uncomfortable looking plastic seats. ‘Please, do sit down.’

Cullen did as requested. The seat was as uncomfortable as it looked.

‘We spoke on the phone yesterday,’ the man said. ‘We ran the audio through our system, cleaned it up, removed the background noise, to leave you just with the spoken words.’

He handed Cullen a typed transcript. It looked like a film script. But instead of actor’s names, the cast was headed “Male 1”, “Female 1”.

Cullen read the pages. He remembered how Sam had described the incident.

This seemed to reflect what he had said exactly.

But if this was really a recording of the incident, then it could mean only one of two things – either what Sam had said was true, and that someone had set this up, recorded it and sent it to him, or Sam himself had made the recording and this was all part of some elaborate game he was playing with the police.

Cullen looked up. ‘Is it genuine?’

The man looked surprised by the question. ‘Genuine?’

‘Yes, is it a recording of the actual train crash? Or could it have been recorded afterwards, to make it sound like it was from then?’

The man nodded his understanding. ‘It was certainly recorded outside. Our team have examined the other noises on the file, and as far as we can deduce, the noise of the train is genuine and is from the same time as the speech – it wasn’t overlaid afterwards. The other noises on the audio – car doors being opened, the sound of shoes on stones, smashing glass – they all appear to be from the same time period.’

It seemed his gut instincts about Sam Becker had been right. ‘Then it is genuine.’

The man nodded.

‘You said there were some surprising findings.’

‘There are,’ the man said. ‘Something we really didn’t expect.’

38

Shirley Ainsley sat at the kitchen table and thought again about what she had found underneath the bed in the spare room. Hours after finding the bag stuffed full of bank notes, she still couldn’t come to terms with it all. Why would Eric have so much money? She hadn’t counted, but there must have been thousands of pounds in the bag. And why hide it from her? She’d fought the urge to walk to his workplace and challenge him there. It would not go well, and it was much better leaving this until he got home. But the wait was painful, and just left her feeling so alone, wallowing in her dark thoughts.

Eric was in trouble.

Or maybe he was planning to leave her. Was the money his ticket out of the marriage?

She rose from the seat and put the kettle on, moving slowly, like her body wasn’t quite connected to her brain. If Eric was planning to leave, she didn’t know how she would cope. One thing was certain though – she wouldn’t give up on their marriage without a fight. And if he was in other trouble, she’d be there for him.

She’d just poured the tea when there was a knock at the door.

She crossed the lounge and approached the door, seeing a silhouette through the glass. The second she pulled the door inward someone stepped through the gap, pushing her against the wall. She went to scream, but a large rough-skinned hand clamped itself over her mouth as she was held firm against the wall. She now saw her assailant, as another two men entered the house from behind him and closed the door.

‘Try and stay calm, Shirley.’

It was Vincent. The man Jane had dated.

He burned into her with those ice blue eyes. ‘Stay calm and we won’t hurt you. We won’t be here long.’

Still with his hand tight across her mouth, he turned to the two other men, who were dressed in black. Both were comfortably over six foot and had close cropped hair. One had a tattoo of an animal on his neck. None had concealed their faces. ‘Start upstairs and work your way down. Be quick.’

The men nodded and made for the stairs. Thank God the children were staying at their aunt’s house - Shirley’s instinct, that it was best for them to be away from the house for a few days, had proved correct.

Vincent smiled as he watched the two men moving swiftly upstairs. He then turned his attention back to Shirley. ‘In the lounge,’ he said, half dragging her down the corridor and through into the living room. ‘Sit,’ he said, throwing her onto the sofa.

Despite being free of him, Shirley did just as she was told. She was scared of what these men might do. ‘We have people right outside the house,’ he explained. ‘So there’s no point trying to get away.’

Shirley looked at the man. He’d been to the house twice, as far as she knew. She’d never been totally sure of him, but Jane had really liked him. She’d trusted him – she had always been a trusting girl. Suddenly she wanted to fight back, make him suffer for what he had done to her daughter.

He swung over a chair and sat on it the reverse way around, with his legs either side of its back. His hands rested on the top and he smiled, his eyes narrowing. ‘I liked your daughter,’ he said. ‘What happened was unfortunate.’

She was so angry, but just as afraid. ‘Why did you…’

‘Do what? Kill her?’ He smiled. ‘Ask your husband.’

Shirley shook her head. ‘No…’

‘Oh yes,’ he replied. ‘Ask Eric why Jane died. See what he says.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘He should be along in a few minutes.’

Shirley pushed the insinuation to one side. ‘Where’s Alison?’

He went to speak but stopped as the men burst into the room, brandishing the bag. ‘It was under one of the beds.’

Shirley’s stomach lurched. What the hell was Eric involved with?

Vincent smiled as he peered inside the open bag. ‘Very good,’ he said, getting to his feet.

‘What have you done with Alison?’ Shirley yelled, getting to her feet as the men headed for the door.