The Truth Will Out (10 page)

“There’s also a clump of hair missing from the left side of her head,” he continued. “Gooding thinks the killer grabbed it to keep her still while he burned her. One burn is smudged, jagged, as if she managed to get away.”

Helen recalled Naomi’s contorted body. The striking red hair spread across her face. She had fallen on her left side, inadvertently hiding the bald patch on her head. They stood in stunned silence for a moment. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“I will be. Could do with a fag though.”

She nodded. “Anything else of any significance?”

“Fibres on her tongue, suggesting she was gagged too.

Helen felt goose bumps appear on her arms and was grateful she was wearing long sleeves.

Spencer stared into space as he continued, “She’d eaten, looks like a meal of pasta, tuna and sweetcorn very soon, maybe even minutes before she died. It still sat in the stomach undigested. From the defensive bruises on her arms and the state of the lounge, Gooding is pretty sure she was caught by surprise. They burnt her a few times, presumably to see if she would tell them where to find whatever it was they looking for. Then a brief tussle followed before they shot her.”

“Any skin samples, hair under her fingernails?”

“Nothing. He’s pretty convinced that the killer wore gloves.”

“What about the missing bullet?”

“Lodged in her spinal column. Gooding retrieved it.” He pulled a pack of Lambert & Butler out of his pocket and held it up briefly. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

“Of course.”

She left Spencer to wander outside to take solace in a cigarette, and made her own way back up the stairs to the incident room. Helen’s mind was awash. The torture made sense in a way. The killer was desperate to find something that he assumed was in Naomi’s house, something he thought Naomi had hidden. But what?

Her phone buzzed and she looked down at it, curiously clicking the button to open the text message:
Really need to talk. Are you free for dinner later? Dean x.

The kiss at the end made her blood boil. Did he really think that he could pick up where they left off? Pushing her phone deep into her pocket, she stomped up the stairs, feeling every step.

By the time she reached her office a pain seared the surface of her brain. She reached for her bag, popped two paracetamol and drank them down with the old tea on her desk. The cold fluid made her flinch.

As she sat down in her chair her mobile trilled. The Dad’s Army theme tune indicated it was her mother. Thoughts of her boys entered her head as she pressed the answer button, her mother rarely rang her at work.

“Hi, Mum. Is everything okay?”

“Hi, darling. Yes, all fine. I’ve had a call from Auntie Jo.”

Helen couldn’t resist a brief smile. Jo was John’s sister, the boys’ aunt. For as long as she could remember her mother had referred to her as ‘Auntie Jo’. “Oh, how is she?”

“Alright, I think. She’s coming to stay for a few days.”

Helen balked. Although Jo lived in nearby London, busy lives over the years had reduced their contact to cards and phone calls on birthdays and a single visit at Christmas. It wasn’t like her to turn up impromptu. “It’s not a good time at the moment. I’m up to my eyes with work.”

“I did try to put her off. I told her you had a case on and won’t be around much, that perhaps she should come another time, but she insisted.”

Helen could very well imagine her mother trying to delay a visit. Jane Lavery tolerated Auntie Jo but if she was honest her very presence exhausted her within the first hour.

“Apparently she’d like to spend some time with the boys,” her mother added.

That didn’t sound likely. Only a couple of years older than Helen, Jo was a career girl in banking and had chosen not to have children. Helen recalled her getting engaged to her long-term partner, Tim, some months earlier on holiday in Antigua. Perhaps they’d had an argument? This was all she needed. Another headache.

Jane Lavery seemed to sense her daughter’s frustration. “Sorry, love. Anyway, her train arrives at seven thirty. I just phoned to let you know. I’m making up your spare room.”

Helen ended the call. For some reason her mother’s voice made her think back to Chilli Franks. Undoubtedly, the most important case of her father’s career, that name would be ingrained into her mother’s brain. Chilli’s contempt for her father was openly demonstrated on many occasions during the trial. She remembered hiding behind the kitchen door as a child, listening to her father’s frustrating stories: The cup of urine he chucked in James Lavery’s face when he visited him in his cell, the repeated threats against his wife and family. Her father called them, ‘Shallow threats of a condemned man.’

Chilli had been out of prison for ten years and there hadn’t been any repercussions to her family. Maybe James was right and the threats were shallow. But there was still a darkness about Chilli, something untoward. She felt it in her bones.

Helen stared back at her phone. She drew the message from Dean back up and her fingers moved over the keys quickly to type:
Busy tonight.
She let out a deep breath as she pressed send. One headache dissolved.

***

Eva woke with a start. She shot forward, glanced about in bewilderment for a moment. The loch sloshed up against the shores, the water grey now that the sun had receded. She shivered. How long had she been asleep? As she moved to sit up, a spasm of pain struck her back. Maybe falling asleep curled up in the chair in the midst of a northern breeze, had not been her brightest move.

Her mind turned to Naomi. She wondered how she was. If she should call her. Was she in hospital?

Maybe she should call the hospitals near Hampton? But she wasn’t a close relative and, even if they would talk to her, they might ask awkward questions.

Maybe she should contact Naomi’s parents. Although Naomi hadn’t got on well with her dad for some time. She’d want to keep this from them. And she certainly wouldn’t thank Eva for spilling the beans.

They’d agreed to keep the secret to themselves. Tell no-one. But that was before the attack.

Eva’s thoughts collided. She slowly gathered herself to a standing position. As she did so, a pain shot through her head. Coloured lights flashed across her peripheral vision indicating the onset of a migraine.

She moved into the bungalow, carefully locking the door behind her and ambling across to the bedroom. The sight of the bed felt like a roaring open fire on a chilly winter’s evening. She kicked off her shoes and climbed in fully clothed, wrapped the duvet around herself and sunk into the soft mattress. Only sleep now, would dull the immediate pain.

Chapter
Ten

Pemberton turned the wheel sharply and pulled into Forge Way. The area reserved for parking was situated at the rear of the properties, which were enclosed by tall picket fencing, exposing their back gardens through narrow slits. Most of the gardens were laid to lawn, one had a patio at the top, another a bench outside the back door. A flash of colour in the garden on the end caught Helen’s attention. A conifer battled for space in the overgrown near corner of the garden, its branches feathering through the gaps in the fencing, obscuring the view. But through the far corner she glimpsed a blue slide, a couple of footballs and a goal.

This had been DI Fitzpatrick’s one concession, the address of Jules Paton’s ex-wife and kids. He’d presented it to her at the press conference earlier in the company of Superintendent Jenkins, as if he was doing her a huge favour.

Yesterday she’d been looking at photographs of two dead victims who’d lain in the roads nearby. Now she was back in the rabbit warren again.

They exited the car and made their way up the side alley between the houses, past an overflowing wheelie bin to the front entrance of number forty-two. Heavy beats of music thudded from the house next door.

As Helen raised her fist to the door a loud wail rose from within. She gave Pemberton a sideways glance and knocked firmly. There was a scurry inside, the patter of young feet across hard flooring. The crying abated. Two small hands slapped the pane of frosted glass that ran down the middle panel of the door.

The hands were rapidly removed. A jingle of keys, a click and the door opened. Dressed in tight jeans and a black, fitted top, Karen Paton stood in front of them in bare feet. Her dark hair was scraped back from her face and tied in a high ponytail. She wore no make-up, yet the beauty in her young face was striking: neat dark brows framed deep brown eyes, edged with thick black lashes. Helen guessed she was in her early twenties. The young boy with the offending hands, around two-years-old, was balanced on her hip, fresh tears still visible on his face.

Helen held up her card. “Good afternoon, Karen. I’m DCI Lavery and this is DS Pemberton.”

Karen made no attempt to invite them in. She simply nodded, her eyes switching from one to another. The child wriggled in her arms and she tightened her grip. “I can’t tell you anymore than I told you on the phone,” she said, exasperation filling her tone as the child continued to wriggle.

“We just want to ask you some questions about Jules, Karen,” Helen said. “May we come in?”

The child was squirming hard now, writhing around. Karen reluctantly moved aside to let them in and as soon as the door was closed, she put him down. He immediately scooted behind her.

Helen bent down. “What’s your name?”

He stared at her for a moment, before moving further behind his mother’s legs.

“Not like you to be shy, Ben,” Karen said and rubbed his head tenderly. “Don’t you like the police lady?”

He looked up at his mother and grinned, then hid his head in her leg. “You’d better come through,” she said, lifting him back onto her hip.

Helen and Pemberton followed them down a narrow hallway, past a closed door on the right, stairs blocked by a wooden baby gate to the left, and into a square kitchen. The fittings were basic, grey formica cupboards with mock marble work surfaces. An older boy sat at a round pine table in the middle, drawing a picture. He wore a blue jumper with a gold school emblem, although he barely looked old enough to be at school. He stopped and stared at them.

“Hello,” Helen smiled.

He said nothing, but continued to stare, wide eyed. A thick aroma of warm milk pervaded the room.

Karen put the toddler down, then turned and placed her hands on her hips. “I’m sorry but I think you’ve had a wasted journey.”

“We just need to ask you a few questions,” Helen said, “it shouldn’t take long.”

The elder boy lowered himself down from the table and ran to the back door, swiftly pushing his feet into a pair of green wellingtons.

Karen Paton turned to face him. “Callum, if you’re going outside to play, you need to put your coat on,” she said.

He grabbed a navy jacket off the back of a chair and went outside without uttering a word. The door slammed behind him.

Finding herself next to the fridge, Helen studied the photographs encircled by a plethora of fridge magnets, drawings and paintings that decorated it. Pictures of the two boys playing football, one of them holding a fishing rod, another of them posed by a large building that Helen didn’t recognise. She paused on one of Karen, dressed up on a night out on the town, then several others of her below that looked as if they’d been taken professionally.

“These are nice,” she said. “Where did you have them taken?”

Karen spied her suspiciously. “I used to do some modelling before I had the kids.”

“Is that where you met Jules?”

Karen guessed where the line of questioning was going. “Yeah. He was at one of the shoots.” Her voice was deadpan, her face a brick wall.

Helen looked back at the photos. Karen Paton was certainly very photogenic.

A loud wail rose from behind them, “Want to go out too!”

Karen turned to look at her younger son. “Okay. Put your boots on first.”

“Don’t want to!” He rushed across to the door and reached for the handle.

“Ben!” She moved quickly and positioned herself between the door and the toddler. “No,” she said firmly, ignoring the others in the room. “If you want to go outside, you wear your boots and coat.”

Ben let out a shrill scream and threw himself on the floor.

“Looks like you’ve got your hands full,” Helen said. She pressed her lips together in sympathy.

Karen briefly nodded, although her face held a ‘how would you know?’ expression. She turned her attention back to the toddler who was banging his hands on the floor.

Helen glanced around the room. Apart from some freshly peeled potatoes standing in an uncovered pan next to the cooker, a kettle, breadbin and single kitchen roll, the surfaces were clear. She recalled their earlier phone conversation when Karen had confirmed that her and Jules were separated, although he has open access to the children and comes and goes as he pleases. She also maintained she hadn’t seen him since Saturday and had no idea where he was and no way of contacting him. The problem was Helen didn’t really believe her.

She suddenly became aware that the crying had abated. The toddler was fiddling with a small box, picking out raisins and planting them in his mouth. She watched Karen lift him onto the side and he swung his legs as she helped him into his jacket, fastening each button separately, then slipped red wellington boots over his feet. His eyes were still fixed on the box of raisins as she pecked him on the nose and lifted him down. She handed him another box and opened the door. “Give those to your brother.”

As Karen turned to face them, Helen pointed at the empty chairs in front of her, “May we?”

She gave a reluctant shrug as they sat.

“Difficult age,” Helen said, tilting her head towards the garden.

“You got kids?” Karen’s tone was abrasive. She clearly felt her mothering skills were being questioned.

“Two boys,” Helen said. “Teenagers now.”

Karen looked genuinely surprised.

“Why don’t you sit down?”

Karen sat in the chair nearest the back door and eyed Pemberton suspiciously as he got out his notebook and pen. “I don’t know anything,” she said.