Never Forget (18 page)

E
xiting the nick, statement completed, I let my head fill with the thought of seeing Stan. I called him to confirm when I’d be with him.

‘Good morning, Nina. I’m looking forward to seeing you. How are you?’

I smiled at the sound of his voice. ‘Never felt better,’ I lied. ‘I’ll be with you in about half an hour. I’ll unpack, we can have lunch and then see how it goes.’ I didn’t reckon my chances of getting out for a drink with Wingsy and Laura but was prepared to see how that went too.

As I said goodbye to Stan, I made my way across the yard. I was surprised to see Beckensale at the smoking shed, puffing away. She was looking directly at me. I waved. She remained motionless. Still a miserable cow, then, I thought.

Making my way the thirty metres or so to her smoky domain, I struggled to come up with what I was going to say to her. We hadn’t spoken since the Jake Lloyd business. I started with a pleasant, neutral, ‘Morning, sarge. What brings you to this nick this morning?’

‘Nina. Heard you’re seeing Bill Harrison.’

‘Not exactly seeing him,’ I mumbled, thinking that chance would be a fine thing. I changed the subject. ‘Never got to say thanks for the rapid response and, well, everything you’ve done for me.’

Beckensale took another drag, then ground the stub against the base of the metal ashtray bolted to the lean-to shelter. Immediately, she opened her cigarette packet and lit
another one. ‘I like him,’ she said. Momentarily confused, I opened my mouth to say something but she cut me off. ‘Bill Harrison. He’s alright. Someone like you could do a lot worse.’

That was as near to a compliment as I was going to get. I had become used to Beckensale and her ways. No one knew much about her. She liked it that way. There she stood, not a totally unattractive woman, intelligent and diligent, in a cheap, creased suit made from static-conducting man-made material, nicotine-stained fingertips and fingernails like talons. There was surely something for everyone. I’d tried and failed to gauge how she saw the world and what she wanted from it.

‘Well, thanks again, sarge. I’m glad I saw you; I haven’t had the chance to go over to our nick lately. Bye.’ I hoisted my handbag on to my shoulder in preparation for my departure.

‘Make sure you look after yourself. And tell Bill to keep an eye out as well.’

This was tantamount to caring. All I could manage was to wave at her before I headed for my car.

I pulled my mobile from my bag and pretended to check my messages. On reaching the electronic gate, I opened it with my access card, to be greeted by a marked police van, with six constables on board plus Bill. Caught up in phony message-checking and my escape from Beckensale, I hadn’t heard the van approaching. Lila was driving and gave me a wave. Before I had a chance to put my phone away, it bleeped as a message arrived in the inbox. The text, from Bill, read,
‘Was just thinking about calling you.’

Not wanting to hang around the van like a sad police groupie, I stood to one side to let them through, but couldn’t resist texting back,
‘Will call you later.’

I got to my car and drove to Stan’s with the sun shining all the way, the radio on, enjoying a surge of pleasure from life.

S
tan’s front garden looked immaculate when I pulled up on the driveway. Glancing up at the house, I also noticed that the top-floor windows were open slightly. I wasn’t the only one who cared.

As I turned the engine off, the movement of the front door opening caught my eye. Samantha stood at the door. She came towards my car and I got out to greet her. Her face was slightly pale but her normal in-control poise, inherited from her father, carried her along the pathway to where I stood. I still had mixed feelings about her, but knew it was as ridiculous as being jealous of Pierre talking to Laura.

‘Hello, Nina. It’s lovely to see you. He’s been asking if you were here yet ever since you two spoke earlier. I told him that you’re never late.’ She moved closer, lowered her tone and said, ‘Thanks for helping out. There was not a doubt in my mind that you would, but I know that work’s been crazy for you.’

‘Hi, Samantha. You can say that again. They gave me today off so I’m here till Sunday evening or whenever he’s sick of me,’ I answered, then realised that the use of the word ‘sick’ was tactless. She didn’t seem to notice.

We unloaded the stuff from my boot, chatting as we did so. It turned out that her husband had kept the gardening up, making a fantastic job of it as far as I could see, and Samantha had helped out indoors. She promised to give me a run-down on anything I’d need to be aware of, such as medication for Stan, once I’d seen my old friend, and then she’d clear out of the way.

Dumping my four bags plus groceries in the hallway, casting a glance at that day’s local newspaper next to the front door, I followed her through to the garden room. Really, it was a dining room extension with big glass doors. My parents had never been keen gardeners so, growing up, I’d been in awe of anyone who had the time, energy and know-how to create something as beautiful as an outside room full of colour and life. The first time I’d seen Stan’s garden it had been as if an extra sense had kicked in: my life had been in black and white until my eyes fell upon the cascade of flowers, every shade imaginable, the lushness of shrubs vying for attention.

Stan sat in an old-fashioned armchair, at an angle so that he could survey the evolving beauty of his garden but also see Samantha and me entering the room.

‘Hello, Nina,’ he said. ‘You look well. Have you been sleeping?’

‘I’ve not felt this good for a long time,’ I said as I went over to him. I was relieved to see that he didn’t try to get up. ‘How about you? Samantha’s gonna tell me what you can and can’t do, so that you don’t try to get one over on me while she’s gone.’ He was clearly knackered and couldn’t overdo it if he wanted to, but I didn’t want to dent his pride.

He smiled and took his glasses off now that I was standing next to him. I bent to kiss him on the cheek and squeezed his hand. He squeezed mine in return.

‘Have a seat,’ he said. ‘I think Samantha’s gone to put the kettle on.’ I hadn’t noticed she’d left us to it.

The breeze from the garden touched my cheek. I fought an urge to wrap him in the blanket, shut the door and turn the heating up. I was clearly going to have to chill out or get on his nerves with my fussing. ‘Warm enough, Stan?’ I said.

‘Yes, thank you. It’s a beautiful day. Tell me about the murders,’ he said.

My eyes darted to the direction of the kitchen.

‘Not now, perhaps,’ he added. ‘Later, when you’ve unpacked. Tell me about your new boyfriend instead.’

My mouth opened, but I failed to find the words for a second or two while his eyes twinkled. Wasn’t much that got past Stan, even after a hospital stay and copious medication.

We continued to chat long after we’d had tea and Samantha had left us to our lunch. I told him about Bill, of course. Why wouldn’t I? Then we moved on to the business of murder. At this point, I made an excuse to shut the door in case we could be overheard. I was worried he was cold, but I was sure he knew the real reason. Sure he humoured me. Stan’s nearest neighbours, even if they had been standing at the fence with listening devices, would still have been about one hundred feet from where we were talking. The chances of them overhearing were minuscule.

Over a fantastic crab and prawn salad, eaten on our laps, I told Stan the whole story, from murder one, Amanda Bell, prostitute, to murder two, our discovery of Jason Holland, missing person, through to murder three, Daphne Headingly. I filled him in on the photographs taken by Jake Lloyd and Lloyd’s confession to the murder of his cousin Scott who had also kidnapped two little girls. Stan put his knife and fork down at this point but continued to listen without comment. I outlined the encounters I’d had with Belinda, Birdsall and the ex-wife, Chloe. When I mentioned that I’d seen Birdsall in the nick with the caretaker, he put his knife and fork down once more. Still no comment. I ended with my upcoming trip to Birmingham and threw in that the caretaker’s son had been living in Birmingham as a child in a children’s home. I wanted to see how Stan reacted.

Once more, I heard Stan place his cutlery on to his plate. This time he had finished eating. I was still only halfway through, I’d been so busy chattering. I watched him slowly chew the last morsel of his meal, pondering his first question or comment. Whatever it was, I would hang on every syllable.

When he had swallowed the last mouthful, he said, ‘And you think the fact that Alf’s son – a friend of a potential
suspect – was in Birmingham in a children’s home is more than just a coincidence? It doesn’t seem like much to go on.’

‘I know, I know, but Birmingham keeps coming up, and I wonder if there’s more to it…’

‘And you didn’t think to talk to anyone about this?’

‘How daft would that be? The trouble I’ve caused, if I told them, they’d put me in an office and send someone else.’

He laughed, then he closed his eyes, resting his head back against the cream and blue upholstery of the chair-back. I took charge and said, ‘Samantha warned me that I wasn’t to let you sit there. I’ve a schedule for you to follow. Afternoon nap is next on the agenda.’

‘And what about you? Young woman like you is bound to have something to do this weekend. Especially with a young man on the scene.’

‘“On the scene”? You’re gonna use the term “courting” or “walking out together” in a minute. I haven’t even got a date with Bill arranged. People getting murdered keep holding up the romance. A couple of friends asked me out for a quick beer tonight, that’s all.’

‘Wingsy and Laura, I assume,’ he said. ‘I’ve an idea: ask them here. I’d love to meet them.’

I was a bit surprised, but flattered and pleased to think that my friends would be under one roof. I allowed Stan to get himself up, and followed him upstairs at a distance, but not so far that I wouldn’t be able to spring into action if needed. Before I went about about making the necessary calls and arranging a small gathering at Stan’s in a few hours’ time, while he slept, I stole down to the hallway to read the newspaper I’d seen there earlier. All thoughts of whether I should invite Bill along too, and wondering if Stan would find it too much, were pushed from my mind as I picked up the paper and read the front page. It hollered its headline at me: ‘Crazy Knife Killer Claims Third Victim’. It went on to describe how seventy-seven-year-old Daphne Headingly had been savagely murdered. Reading through the article,
I could only agree with what it said about the police: we were indeed ‘baffled’. At the part that described the second suspect’s detainment in a police cell while Daphne was being slaughtered, I could only nod my head in agreement. I was mulling over the crassness of the word ‘slaughtered’ when my eyes flitted to the article on the opposite page.

This headline wasn’t hollering; it was screaming in both my ears. It read: ‘Arrest of Murder Victim’s Nephew for Stalking Detective’.

I dropped down on to the bottom step of the staircase. Heart hammering, I read on. The article named me. It actually named me as ‘Detective Constable Nina Foster’ and went on to describe Jake Lloyd’s obsession with me spanning decades. His arrest had been made, it said, while I was at his house conducting an enquiry into his aunt’s murder.

Clutching the paper to me, I sat on the stairs to regain my composure. His bail hearing following his arrest and charge had been reported from an open court. The press and members of the public were free to come and go; I could have done nothing to stop it. But it was my name for all to see.

All I’d ever wanted to do was to keep a low profile and merge into the background. I had no idea who would read this. No one at work had warned me but then I should have seen this coming. I was angry with myself for not expecting it.

I couldn’t let Stan see this – it would upset him. From the uncreased, immaculate fold of the pages I could tell that I was the first to read it. I ran upstairs and hid it in my suitcase. Then I got on with the job I had to do. I had a gathering to organise.

As the evening passed I felt more and more mellow, shelving all thought of the article. My three friends hit it off. Despite Laura’s abstinence (she was driving), drinks were consumed and food disappeared as soon as it emerged from the kitchen. We all took it in turns knocking up snacks and dishes, some more successful than others.

My turn came and I opted for a lazy dish of nachos with cheese and dip. As I came out of the kitchen with the tray, the conversation stopped and all three of them stared at me from their seats at the dining room table. I read Laura’s look as embarrassment, Stan’s as annoyance. Wingsy just looked awkward.

‘What’s wrong?’ I said, halting, allowing the melted cheese to solidify.

‘Laura was just talking about the bloodstained clothing found in Jake Lloyd’s house,’ said Stan. ‘You didn’t tell me about that.’ Even though he spoke with a calm and even voice, I knew he was angry with me.

‘I didn’t tell you because, if it’s the original clothes I and my sister were wearing, then I’m practically saying that someone on your enquiry team lost them or gave them away.’ Truth was, it wasn’t so much about criticising Stan, but I hadn’t wanted to worry him. ‘Come on, you lot, eat these nachos. I’ve excelled myself with this signature dish.’

As I put the cheese-topped snacks down, Stan leaned across, placing his hand on top of mine. I steeled myself for whatever he was going to say.

‘Nina,’ he said, forcing me to look away from the hardening cheddar to meet his eyes, ‘I destroyed the clothes myself. Process was a lot less sophisticated then, but I burned them. I wouldn’t lie to you.’

That was good enough for me, and it confirmed what Catherine had told me about the likelihood that the clothes at Lloyd’s house were replicas. I let go of the dish and picked up my wine. Wingsy leaned across to help himself as Laura gave me an empty smile.

Wingsy didn’t stay too late, as Mel was still giving him some grief. He alluded to her wanting another baby but then shied away from talking about it. Laura left a couple of hours after him. We were both looking forward to going to Birmingham on Monday for a trip neither of us knew much about. I feigned tiredness to get Stan to go to bed.

I climbed into the cool sheets of the guest bed, feeling sleep reaching out and grabbing me, content to let it pull me towards an easy slumber. As I closed my eyes, my final thought was of the children’s clothes that had been plaguing me. I was relieved to finally put to rest the issue of their authenticity. Stan’s word sealed it for me.