Perfect Intentions: Sometimes justice is above the law (14 page)

And with that, the masked stranger turned and walked away, Richard’s screams of protest and disgust punctuating the night air.

As the two uniformed policemen pulled up outside Joanne Hamilton’s house, they gave each other a sideways glance; neither of them relished the thought of what they had to do now. They had agreed this was definitely the worst part of their job. Letting out synchronised sighs, they got out of the car and made their way up the path to the front door, ringing the doorbell. They straightened themselves up as they waited for the door to be opened.

This was the young PC Bannerman’s thirteenth month on the job, and from what he’d seen in the last twenty-eight
days, he was starting to wonder if it might be his last. Nothing they’d taught him during training had prepared him for what he’d seen in that disused council lockup on the industrial estate four weeks ago. He still felt ill whenever he thought back to it, and he’d not had one decent night’s sleep since. Now here he was, on the doorstep of another potential victim’s house, and he was about to tell some poor woman that one of her husband’s digits had been found in an ice-lolly at her husband’s mistress’s house.

Again, no training for that, either; he’d received training in how to break the news of death to relatives, but what body did they have? A finger. A finger doesn’t necessarily mean that the man was dead, so what were they going to say?

“
Hi, Mrs. Hamilton, I’m afraid we have some bad news. Someone’s relieved your husband of a finger and we were wondering if you could formally identify it? We have a positive ID from his mistress, who incidentally found it an ice-lolly she’d been sucking on at the time. No, I’m afraid we can’t be sure if the rest of him is dead or not, but once the police examiners have finished with the finger, we will release it back to you and if we find the rest of him, we’ll be sure to let you know
.”

No, this was all wrong, this wasn’t why he’d joined the force—so some sick creep could play games with him.

P.C Bannerman was brought soundly back to Earth by the sound of a key in the door in front of them. As the door slowly opened, his eyes met the pale, drawn face of a lady who had clearly been very attractive in her day but had obviously let herself go. There were dark rings around her eyes, her dark blonde hair, streaked with grey, was lying limply round her face, and she was still in a dressing gown.

“How can I help you, Officer?” Her voice was strong, despite her appearance. PC Bannerman spoke then.

“Mrs Joanne Hamilton?” She nodded her response.

“I’m afraid we have some news concerning your husband—would it be possible to come in for a minute?”

“Yes, yes, he’s not here, though, never is these days. I haven’t seen him in over a week; he even missed Harry’s birthday.”

“Harry?” PC Bannerman queried.

“Oh, sorry, Harry’s our son. Sixteen he is now. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No thank you, Mrs Hamilton. About your husband, I think it might be best if you sat down.”

As if hearing him for the first time, Joanne swung about to face him.

“Listen, Constable, I believe my husband’s left me; I always knew the day would come, but I’m still in shock, so unless he’s dead I have no interest in anything he’s done, whether past, present, or future. He hasn’t been my husband for a very long time, always running around with any bit of skirt that caught his eye, but he crossed the line when he missed his son’s birthday. I know he’s been seeing someone else and I also know that he’s left me—of course the coward couldn’t tell me to my face, he wanted me to find out for myself.”

The verbal tirade stunned Bannerman, and he mentally cursed the forces that had brought him into the middle of this shit storm. He stared calmly back at her and spoke gently.

“So he didn’t tell you he was leaving you?”

“No.”

“How do you know he left you, then?”

“‘Cause I found out he’s put a deposit down on a house, and I know it’s not for us, because he never mentioned moving. So come on, out with it, what has my dearest gone and done, anyway?”

“Well, I’m afraid it’s not anything he’s done. Earlier on today we had a call from a distraught woman saying she’d found something that belonged to your husband at her apartment.”

“Yes? So what does that have to do with me, or, indeed, you, for that matter? Obviously that’s my husband’s newest bit of skirt—what was it she’d found? His morals in a bin bag?”

“Actually, it was his wedding ring.”

“Aha! The dirty bastard didn’t even have the decency to give it back to me in person.” Knowing there was no easy way of doing this, PC Bannerman blurted out,

“Complete with his finger.”

Joanne had drawn a breath, readying for a long line of expletives, when she stopped dead.

“What did you say?”

“I’m afraid the wedding ring was still on his finger when it was discovered.”

“So you mean to tell me someone cut his finger off?”

“Yes.”

“I want to see him.” Her voice changed suddenly; the hostility was gone and she now sounded quiet and concerned.

“I’m sorry?” Bannerman replied.

“Take me to him—he’s still my husband and the father of my children. I need to see him.”

As she was talking, she moved around, locating her handbag and checking that she had her keys in there. Then she slipped off her slippers, went into the hall, and came back with a scruffy pair of shoes. As she started putting them on, Bannerman once more looked at his colleague and, practically pleading with his eyes, gently spoke.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mrs Hamilton.”

She stopped what she was doing and looked the young PC straight in the eye.

“What do you mean? Why can’t I see my own husband?”

“I’m afraid we haven’t been able to locate his whereabouts as yet.”

Joanne dropped to the floor in front of the PC. PC Bannerman watched her as she dissolved into sobs in front of him. Then almost as quickly as she had started to sob she stopped. Getting up she walked through into the kitchen. The PC followed her. She put the kettle on and then going over to the dresser she opened the top drawer and retrieved an envelope. Grabbing the contents of it she laid it out on the table in front of her. PC Bannerman walked up behind her and glanced over her shoulder.

Sensing the PC’s presence Joanne spoke.

“It looks like he hasn’t made any transactions for over a week.”

As Bannerman reviewed the statement, the other PC gently took Joanne by the arm and led her back into the living room and sat her down on the sofa. Returning to the kitchen he made the tea.

Joanne sat in the interview room at the police station. She’d never been inside a police station, let alone been in an interview room before. And she decided she didn’t like it. She didn’t like being made to feel like a criminal. She’d been questioned about Jon’s behaviour leading up to his disappearance and asked the obligatory question about if there were any problems within their marriage. That had almost made her laugh—she couldn’t think of a time when they hadn’t had problems. Not that that would have had any bearing on the facts. So, resolutely, she had continued to play the doting wife and said that everything was fine.

Although she had been reassured that she wasn’t a suspect, it hadn’t stopped her feeling guilty. It was as if these sparse rooms were designed to make you believe the worst of yourself.

She’d left the kids at home alone, and even though they were old enough to be there unsupervised, she still didn’t like it, especially not with the way things stood at the moment. No one had seen hide nor hair of Jon in well over a week; well, discounting the sudden appearance of his ring finger. She was also unaware of exactly how she should feel about the news. So far the thing troubling her most was the thought of explaining it to the kids, and then there was the question of life insurance. She was sure they needed to produce a whole body before the insurance company would cough up. Typical bloody Jon; he’d been disappearing most of their married life, and now it looked as if his disappearing act would yet again leave her bereft, but financially this time. Then, of course, she’d felt guilty for being so callous about a man she had once loved who was the father of her children. The Police had told Joanne that they had questioned the mistress about Jon’s whereabouts leading up to his disappearance, but apparently she hadn’t seen him for a week prior. But then she was probably lying; her type always did, especially when in a tight spot. It was after all the tart stock and trade: lying, cheating, causing pain to people they’d probably never met before in their lives.

A WPC broke into her thoughts by walking into the interview room.

“Ok Mrs Hamilton, we’re finished for tonight. We can give you a lift home if you’d like.”

As the WPC had walked through she’d been taken aback by the broken shadow of a woman sitting in front of her; it looked as if she’d had all the fight drained from her. The irony of what had been found in Sarah Lester’s apartment earlier had not been lost on her. She’d been brought up in a household where it had been practically expected for her father to stay out at his mistresses’ houses at least one night a week. She’d watched her mum go through all the stages. Anger, belligerence, and denial, until finally her father had worn her down from the proud, formidable woman he had married to a doormat.

Now she felt she was looking at her mother, only twenty years younger and with a more permanent absentee husband. The WPC couldn’t shake the feeling she was having about the killer—he seemed almost vigilante in his choice of victims. Although the police still weren’t sure about the identity of the first victim, the second victim, Matt Reynolds, was rumoured to have been a drunken, abusive partner. Their enquiries had led them to a girl called Rebecca, an ex of the late Matt Reynolds, and although they had split up years ago, she was still a shadow of a woman. The WPC had stood there, practically agog, as Rebecca’s mother had recanted the miserable affair of her daughter and Matt Reynolds’s abortive relationship. She had seen all the scarring up the girl’s arms and wondered how one person could be allowed so much control over another. As soon as Rebecca had heard about his demise, she had run off upstairs, sobbing. According to her friends and family, she’d been lively and outgoing—that was, until she’d fallen under the spell of Matt.

And now there was Mr Hamilton. The killer must have been feeling more confident now, as it had been quite a daring stunt to pull off. To have the wedding finger complete with ring frozen inside an ice-lolly, where it was discovered several hours later by the adulterers’ mistress must’ve taken some planning.

Joanne spoke up then.

“Are you going to question her more?”

“Miss Lester? No, there’s nothing tying her to your husband’s disappearance.”

“But she was his mistress, wasn’t she?  She must have a clue to his whereabouts. She managed to keep their relationship a secret, lying and cheating; what makes you think she’s telling you the truth now?”

“She has a watertight alibi.”

“Fine, well, if it’s all the same to you, I would like to go home now, please; I’ve got kids at home who I’ve yet to tell the news to.”

With that, Joanne got up and strode to the door. The WPC opened it for her and followed her out back into the reception area.

“Would you like a lift back home, Mrs Hamilton?”

“Please.”

“Ok, just wait here, I’ll get a car sent round to you.”

Joanne watched as the WPC disappeared back into the station. Realising it may take a while Joanne sat down once more on one of the hard plastic seats located in the reception area and stared around at all the various posters and paraphernalia littering the walls—this truly was a depressing place. Joanne was aware that her circumstances for being there were less than ideal, but she got the distinct impression it would still be just as depressing to the casual observer. Leaning her head back against the wall, she stared up at the ceiling. She was absolutely shattered. As soon as she got in, she was going for a hot bath then straight to bed. Her gaze fell back towards the desk in the reception; it was deserted. And then, in her peripheral vision, there was movement—the door she had just come through was opening. People were talking.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help more, Officer.”

The voice had a whiny, childish quality to it.

“That’s ok Miss Lester, I’ll send a car straight round to pick you up.”

“Thank you, Officer.”

Joanne heard the door swing again as the officer went to sort out an available car.

Joanne knew she shouldn’t look; she knew she didn’t really want to see, but she already knew who it was: Sarah Lester. She’d met her before; she’d shown up at the restaurant when her and Jon had been out about three weeks ago on their wedding anniversary—one of the few times of the year he actually took her out.

Sarah had introduced herself as an ex-employee, and even though she could have sworn she’d seen a flicker of annoyance cross Jon’s face, she had
naïvely put that down to the fact that he hadn’t wanted to be disturbed. Now, though, she knew differently. Joanne had taken an instant liking to the girl, who had seemed young enough to be their daughter and had invited her to join them. Now, as she fixed Sarah with a steady gaze, everything suddenly made sense. That little bitch had not only been sharing her husband, she’d had the audacity to befriend her. Whether part of a power trip or just to see the look on Jon’s face, it didn’t matter—the humiliation was still there whatever spin was put on it. She looked at Sarah now, tight clothes and makeup smeared down her face, and she knew that if her husband were here, he would still want her. Even with her hair a mess and panda eyes, and that hurt—really hurt. Joanne’s look hardened as she stared at the pathetic girl and she felt nothing but burning, seething hatred. She knew it was unfair; Jon was as much—if not more—to blame for the affair, but he wasn’t here now, and this young tramp was, still laughing at her and mocking her with her tight stomach and creaseless face. She couldn’t hold herself back any longer and she launched herself at the girl.