Road Closed (11 page)

18

Pretence

‘Police! Police!’ Debbie shrieked at her phone. She gabbled her address at the top of her voice. ‘No, 16A,’ she repeated as loudly as she could, as though someone on the line hadn’t heard the number. She hoped the intruder wouldn’t realise she was shouting into a dead phone. ‘You’ve got a patrol car round the corner,’ she yelled, making an effort to slow her voice down and speak clearly. ‘That’s great! You’re bound to catch him unless he leaves straight away.’ She paused, afraid she was being too obvious.

Footsteps pounded across the hall and a second later the front door slammed.

Debbie sank to her knees. A few minutes passed before she managed to clamber to her feet. Trembling, she pushed the door open and peeped out into the corridor. It was empty. She crept along to the hall. The man had gone. The front door was closed. She turned back and checked her kitchen and living room, even though she knew there was no one there. She was alone in her flat. Crying uncontrollably now, she stumbled into the bedroom and fell on the bed. She was still crying when her phone rang.

‘Hi this is Debbie. I’m not here but please leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.’

The phone beeped and her sister’s voice came on the line. ‘Debbie, where are you? Can’t you be on time, for once? We’re all waiting for you. You haven’t forgotten have you?’ She sounded irritated. There was a buzz of voices in the background and then her sister resumed. ‘Call and let me
know if you’re not coming, OK? Otherwise we’ll assume you’re on your way and we’ll wait. Hope everything’s all right. See you soon. Bye.’

Debbie sat up, wiped her eyes and blew her nose fiercely. Then she phoned her sister back. ‘Hi, it’s me.’

‘Deb? Is that you? You sound awful.’

‘I’m fine,’ she lied. If she told her sister what had happened, Jennifer was bound to tell their mother and then Debbie would never hear the end of it. ‘Just a bit of a cold.’

‘Perhaps you’d better stay at home?’

‘No, really, I’m fine. I’m just about to leave.’

‘It’s gone six. You’re supposed to be here already.’

‘I know, I just had a problem at home, but it’s sorted now. I’m on my way.’

‘Debs, what’s going on? Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘Nothing’s going on.’ She felt her resolve waver. ‘Look, I’m on my way, OK?’ She hung up. ‘Bugger,’ she muttered. Jennifer always knew when she was lying. She should have said she felt too ill to go round to her sister’s for a family gathering, but it was too late to back out now. And it wasn’t as if anything had actually happened. She climbed off the bed, splashed cold water on her swollen and weepy eyes, and made a stab at calming her wild hair. Despite her efforts, she looked awful.

‘I’ve got a bit of a cold,’ she told her reflection firmly and tried to smile.

Jennifer knew straight away something was wrong. ‘Tell me when mum’s gone,’ she muttered. Preoccupied with her grandson, Debbie’s mother accepted her daughter had a slight cold without interest. Debbie was relieved, but slightly disconcerted by her mother’s indifference.

‘You look like you could do with a few early nights,’ was all her mother said before she turned her attention back to the
baby. ‘And whose birthday is it? Who’s the birthday boy? Yes, it’s your birthday.’

After their mother had gone, Debbie and Jennifer sat down at the kitchen table.

‘We never really had a chance to talk earlier,’ Jennifer began as she gave Debbie a mug of tea. The baby was asleep upstairs. His father was watching football on the television in the front room. They could hear the distant excited shouting of a commentator accompanied by gentle snoring. ‘So what’s up?’ Jennifer leaned forward on the table and scrutinised Debbie’s face. ‘You look like shit.’

‘Thanks.’ They both smiled. ‘It’s nothing really,’ Debbie went on. Gazing into her tea, she related what had happened earlier that evening.

‘My God, Debbie! That’s awful! Have you reported it?’

‘What do you mean, reported it?’

‘To the police. Have you reported it to the police?’

Debbie shrugged. ‘Nothing happened.’

‘He had a knife, Debbie. He could’ve used it. You could’ve been hurt.’

‘Well I wasn’t.’

‘That’s not the point. He could do it again. Next time you might not escape so lightly. You were lucky –’

‘Lucky?’ Debbie interrupted, her voice rising in agitation. She stopped and took a deep breath.

‘You don’t know what he might be capable of. He could be dangerous. What if he comes back? I’m worried about you, Debs. You have to go to the police.’

‘And say what, exactly?’ Debbie hedged. She knew her sister was right. She could identify her intruder. She had seen his bulbous eyes and hair the colour of wet sand. ‘Jen,’ she admitted, ‘I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.’

‘Go to the police, Debs. You can’t pretend it didn’t happen.’ She paused. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘No, thanks. I’m not totally incapable.’ Jennifer opened her mouth to protest but at that moment the baby began to wail. ‘Time I was going anyway,’ Debbie said, with a tired smile. She made no move to leave.

‘You’re sure you’re OK?’

‘I’m fine. And you’re right. I’ll go to the police.’

The baby’s cries were growing louder. Jennifer stood up and went to the door. ‘I’d better see to Jamie. Why don’t you stay for a bit? There’s no need to rush off. Stay and have another cup of tea before you go.’

‘No, thanks. I couldn’t. I’m absolutely stuffed, and I’m tired. I want to get home.’

‘You sure you’re OK? Do you want Bob to drop you back?’

‘Don’t be silly. Nothing happened. I’m fine, really.’ She looked round. Her sister had already left the room.

19

Papers

Geraldine went to bed early on Sunday and arrived at work early on Monday morning feeling invigorated. She fretted at her desk, impatient for the morning briefing to be over so she could start work in earnest. Several times she was tempted to make her way up to the canteen and see if Ian Peterson was there, but she forced herself to check her emails and scan her notes in preparation for the day. At last it was time to go through to the Incident Room for the briefing.

Kathryn Gordon’s eyes scoured the team. A subdued muttering fell silent when she spoke. Her presence dominated the room but her voice seemed to have lost its power.

‘We need to be aware of local feeling about these burglaries. Bear in mind the editor of the local paper lives on the Harchester Hill Estate. So the break-ins on the estate are all over the front page this week.’ She spoke with reserved anger. ‘Now there’s been a second fatality. We need to step up the pressure. I’ve requested more uniform to help with the door to door, and additional clerical staff to cover the phones. We can expect more calls.’ She brandished a newspaper above her head. ‘You’ve all seen this? This morning’s Harchester Herald.’

LOCAL GANG MURDER TWICE

On Thursday night a woman was murdered in her own home on the Harchester Hill Estate by a gang of burglars who are terrorising the area.

RESIDENTS PROTECT THEMSELVES

Police are advising residents to increase their home security. Detective Inspector Leslie Bennett said: ‘We are advising residents to take common sense precautions to protect their property. We are following several lines of enquiry which we expect to lead to arrests very soon.’

GANG TRIGGER GAS EXPLOSION

A local resident died in a blaze at his home in Harchester Hill in the early hours of Saturday morning.

EXPLOSION

The fire was caused by a gas explosion. The area around the fire was evacuated until late yesterday afternoon, but has now been declared safe.

BURGLARS

A police spokesman has confirmed that a gang of burglars broke into the house during the night. Police suspect they were responsible for leaving the gas on. Was this, as seems likely, the same gang that killed Evelyn Green? Detective Inspector Leslie Bennett said: ‘We are asking members of the public to help us identify the members of this dangerous gang. Any information, however small, may be vital to our investigation so please come forward if you can help.’

SAFETY MEASURES

‘We want to reassure the public that gas poses a danger only when it leaks over a period of several hours,’ a spokesman for the Fire Investigation Team said. ‘Under normal circumstances, the domestic gas supply is perfectly safe. But this tragic event emphasises the need for care within the home. Gas must be properly switched off when not in use. A suspected leak should be reported immediately.’

The DCI glared round the room, but she spoke quietly. ‘The local paper is agitating for an arrest but, as we all know, these investigations take time. I’m confident you’re being vigilant and thorough. But we have to be seen to be doing everything possible to reach a quick result. Until this case is over, all leave is cancelled. We can anticipate interesting headlines in next week’s paper.’ She tossed an irate glance in Bennett’s direction. Out of the corner of her eye Geraldine could see the top of the old detective’s lowered white head. All this action on his patch was unfortunate timing for him, just as he was winding down for retirement.

‘Who cares, what the papers say?’ Polly asked.

The DCI frowned. ‘It’s a question of public confidence,’ she answered, surprisingly gently. ‘Our best source of information is going to be the people who know these villains, the people who live with them. They don’t exist in a vacuum. The less confidence the public have in us, the less likely they are to come forward. So far we haven’t been able to find out who they are. They’re building a reputation as invincible among their associates, their neighbours, their family members. People around them may well be scared of them, or regard them as heroes.’ She paused. ‘We can’t afford to be dismissed as impotent. We need to flip that around. Once it seems inevitable they’re going to be caught, there’s less incentive for those around them to conceal their
identity. That’s the message we need to send out. And the local paper isn’t helping.’

‘Why don’t we get the paper on our side?’ another young constable asked. ‘At least tell them what to say, even if they don’t agree.’

Kathryn Gordon frowned again. ‘Because despite what some of the media suggest, we don’t live in a police state, and we do have a free press. Now check your schedules with the duty sergeant. Enough talk,’ she concluded, suddenly brusque. ‘We’ve got work to do.’

They were waiting for the day’s schedule when the DCI summoned Geraldine. She straightened her skirt and took a deep breath before knocking on the door and was relieved to discover the DCI wasn’t complaining about her sketchy report. There was no need to explain she’d had a bad day on Sunday, she would do better next time, it wouldn’t happen again, ma’am.

Gordon pushed the local newspaper across the desk at her. Geraldine frowned as she leaned over the desk and skimmed the front page.

‘The bloody newspaper knows as much as we do,’ the DCI fumed. ‘If not more. Where the hell did they pick this up? And why the hell are the fire boys talking to a reporter?’ Geraldine’s head was beginning to ache again. ‘I don’t want the papers better informed than we are,’ the DCI concluded as she dismissed Geraldine. ‘Make sure your report is thorough, Geraldine. Don’t leave anything out.’

‘We should be out there conducting door to door enquiries and questioning everyone who knew the victim, not wasting time changing our reports by adding in what we’ve read in the papers,’ she grumbled to Peterson when she passed him in the corridor. He shrugged, sharing her frustration.

‘Coffee?’ she jerked her head in the direction of the canteen and he nodded. In the bright lights of the canteen, Geraldine noticed his pallor, and unhealthy pouches under his eyes. ‘What’s up?’ she asked. ‘You look worn out.’ The sergeant’s shoulders slumped forward. Geraldine waited. She hoped he wasn’t sickening for something. A murder enquiry that threatened to consume their lives for the weeks ahead needed stamina. They had hardly started, and he looked exhausted.

‘It’s Bev,’ he mumbled. Geraldine waited. The sergeant had mentioned his girlfriend before. ‘She says she can’t take it any more. Says she wants a normal life with a normal nine-to-five partner.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Geraldine asked after a pause. She was surprised when he confided easily in her. ‘But she knew you were a police officer before you got together?’

‘She says it’s different when you live with a detective. She thought she’d be fine with it, but when it comes down to it, she isn’t.’ Geraldine thought of Craig and gave the sergeant a sympathetic smile. Peterson took a gulp of coffee and grimaced in disgust. ‘I’m sorry, gov, I shouldn’t be taking up your time like this.’

‘We should be getting back to work,’ she agreed with a worried frown. She hoped Ian Peterson wasn’t going to lose his focus on the case. Her concern wasn’t purely professional. She was fond of the sergeant and dismayed to see him looking so upset. She didn’t know what to say, aware that the phrases she would have used with a member of the public were empty clichés. She fell back on discussing the investigation. ‘I’m going through all the reports from the break-ins again. I suggest you do the same. We should finish by lunch time. Once we’ve got the background, we’ll speak to the Cliff family, check out what was going on between Thomas Cliff and his wife.’

‘Widow,’ Peterson corrected her. ‘Thanks for listening, gov,’ he added awkwardly as she stood up.

‘Work, that’s the best thing for you right now,’ she said briskly.