Two dead wives, p.29
Two Dead Wives, page 29
“What happened to Stacie?” I ask. I know I am testing him.
“It was an accident. And I’m sorry. Sorrier than is bearable. I hope you never have cause to be this sorry. When you came into my life, I really believed you were my second chance. Well, perhaps you are. Not because I get a second chance at being a father, but because I might be able to help save a loved child. What are you waiting for?”
Honestly, I don’t know if I can trust him. I’ve seen such tenderness from him over these past few months, and then today, such desperate cruelty. I wish I could just call the police right now and believe that they will get a boat in the water to give chase before it’s too late, but I don’t imagine that will happen. The explanation as to who I am and what is going on is convoluted and complicated; it would most likely take hours to convince anyone that Fiona has Seb and for them to pursue her. Hours I don’t have. I don’t have many options right now.
Oli looks at me, waiting for me to make a decision. He’s poised like a lion ready to pounce. If I give the nod, he could tackle Kenneth to the floor. A strong young man versus a weakened old one. No contest now that Kenneth has dropped the knife. But I don’t want to watch my son overpower him. I don’t know if I can trust him, a self-confessed killer, a man who has lied to me, imprisoned me, but he is right: time is of the essence here. We don’t have a moment to spare. Every second that Seb stays in Fiona’s grasp is potentially lethal. Kenneth Jones is grief-stricken, lonely, misguided. He’s desperate, depressed, deranged. But he was a father. Is a father, because even death doesn’t change that status. Whatever he’s done, he understands what it means to be a parent and values that above everything. I believe him when he says he’ll help me find my son.
51
Daan
Daan doesn’t speak to the pilot or his lawyer as he climbs into the sleek-bodied helicopter. A friend of his father’s was able to supply his private aircraft at short notice when the authorities, the lawyers, the police, failed to do so. Money talks. Shouts, actually. He told his dad he’s going to the UK to prove his innocence. He’s told the police he’s going there to prove his guilt. It hardly matters what he says to any of them. He’s going because he has to do everything in his power to protect Kai’s motherless boys.
The rotor blades start turning, and they are deafening. He and his lawyer are handed intercom headsets so they can hear the pilot. The rotors whir and it seems to take an age to get up to speed. The pilot asks air traffic control for permission to take off, and finally clearance is given, Daan sits back and lets the overwhelming physical vibration take over his body. The speed of the vertical takeoff is such that he feels as though he is being pushed down into his seat.
He’s glad of the thunderous sound of the blades, which drowns out the possibility of making any sort of conversation. What have they to say to one another? His lawyer has already confirmed that they are heading to Lyme Regis. His request inevitably led to raised eyebrows and raised heartbeats. It has been agreed that he will be taken into police custody the moment they land. He doesn’t care; his goal is getting the police to where he believes the boys are. His confession was apparently greeted with relief and delight, according to his clearly disgruntled lawyer. Daan imagines that the responses are Clements’s and Tanner’s respectively. He keeps asking for information about Oli and Seb, but no one will tell him where they are. He isn’t sure if they don’t know or if they are simply refusing to give him that level of peace of mind.
He gazes about him. Helicopters afford great visibility, which will be useful. He swivels his head, looking out of the front, the sides, down below his feet. He is determined to find those boys.
52
Kylie
Kenneth drives at a dangerous speed, considering the route is one of narrow hairpin bends and tight tracks. I’m already aware of this after our journey home from Lyme Regis yesterday, but this time, I am glad of it. Even though for most of the journey we jolt in and out of potholes or seem to just narrowly miss hitting livestock and fences.
When we arrive in the town, the streets are jam-packed with milling tourists and the roads are so busy that traffic is virtually at a standstill. I can’t imagine ever finding a parking spot. “Oli and I should get out. We could run faster,” I say to Kenneth. I tense for a moment, scared that he might not agree to my suggestion. That he’ll once again flip from someone trying to help me to someone trying to control me. However, he immediately pulls onto a stranger’s driveway. I am expecting that just Oli and I will get out of the car, but Kenneth climbs out too, and simply abandons the vehicle. I don’t have time to argue with him.
We push through the crowds, causing people to grumble and tut. One or two seem to purposefully jab their elbows into me as I run. What is wrong with them? Clearly I’m in trouble; why won’t they get out of the way? I don’t bother to explain or apologize. There will be plenty of that ahead of me and I’ll happily face it, but first I need to find Seb.
“There’s her car!” Oli yells, pointing toward the water.
I recognize it too, and my heart sinks. It’s parked badly, right up at the water’s edge, the boat trailer still attached. It’s clear that my worst fear, that she’s leaving the country, has been realized. A few obviously irate people are standing close to the car, grumbling because it has been inconveniently abandoned on the harbor ramp. It’s causing an obstruction for others who want to launch small craft. I would kill for that to be my problem right now. A normal life, what a luxury.
“What shall we do?” asks Oli.
“We’ll take a boat and follow her,” says Kenneth.
“Like steal one?” asks Oli, somewhere between impressed and shocked.
Kenneth shakes his head. “I was once a trusted doctor.” He must clock Oli’s expression, because he almost laughs. “I know, hard to believe. But people used to tell me where they hid their boat keys, in case I ever needed to get to a patient in Charlton Undercliff or Charmouth Beach in a hurry. You saw the tourist traffic today. The roads are often blocked.” I try to imagine Kenneth as he’s describing himself; a once dependable member of this community, respected even, now ruined through grief. “That one over there belongs to a former patient of mine. There will be a spare set of keys in a plastic box strapped underneath the bench in the hull. People round here don’t change much.”
He sets off to the far end of the harbor at speed. I follow, no longer bothering to question whether he can be trusted or not. Despite everything he has put me through in the past months—all the lies, trickery and deceit—I will accept any port in a storm, and undoubtedly this is a Category 3 shitstorm. He dashes toward a small flotilla of boats that are bobbing on the water and leaps confidently onto one. When he straightens up, he is brandishing the keys in triumph. “Hurry up,” he instructs.
I step onto the boat, then turn to Oli, who is hot on my heels. “No way. No. You have to stay here,” I instruct firmly.
“I’m coming too.”
“No. It’s dangerous. There isn’t enough room and you need to call your dad and the police. Tell them what’s happening.” Oli looks torn, outraged at being left behind but sensible enough to see that calling the police, getting help is a priority. He glances up as he hears a helicopter. I use his momentary lapse of focus to shove him off the boat. He falls onto his backside, landing on the jetty. Kenneth starts the engine and we move away before Oli can get up. “I’m sorry,” I yell. He stares at me with shock and disappointment. I hope that soon he will find a level of understanding. I need to keep him safe. I can’t trust Kenneth, Fiona or the sea. I wish I had time to hug him again. “I’ll bring him back,” I yell. In my head I add, Or I will die trying, but I don’t articulate that bit.
Kenneth is already pulling out of the harbor, cutting through the dark blue sea. I watch Oli turn and start to run back toward the crowds. He stops everyone he meets, obviously asking for a phone. The third person he approaches hands him one.
Kenneth draws my attention away from Oli as he tosses me a life jacket.
“Where’s yours?” I ask. I have to yell to be heard above the engine and the waves.
“There’s only one. Put it on.” I hesitate. “Don’t waste time, I want you to have it,” he snaps. There’s something about his tone that feels similar to mine when I yelled at Oli just now. It is born of concern. “Please,” he adds more reasonably. His hair is blowing about in the wind, his face is creased with worry. I feel like a child. But not the child I was; constantly worried and old before my time. A child who is protected. Adopted, after a lifetime of neglect. I put the jacket on. “Good.” He nods, satisfied. “I think there might be some binoculars in that plastic box if my memory serves me.”
I dig about for the binoculars and retrieve them. Then I start to scan the horizon.
53
DC Clements
Clements listens as the helicopter clatters above her head. A deafening, disconcerting sound. She remembers hearing the same sound last time she was near these shores; back then, against her better judgment, she allowed a flutter of hope to beat in her chest. That time, she and Tanner had come to Lyme Regis to search Fiona’s bungalow and they had been doing so when they heard the helicopter. They had run toward the sound of it. Tanner had immediately called the station, he excitedly demanded to know what was happening. They had thought that...maybe.
She recalls gasping with dread, hope—something primal. She had allowed Tanner to get ahead, as she stopped to bag up the discarded wine bottle. She recalls being irritated that her thorough training had overridden her desire to race to whatever it was the helicopter had been called out for. Damn her good-girl instincts; she had wanted to be the one to find Kylie first. She’d been prepared to discover a decomposing body at the bottom of a cliff, she’d wanted to protect Kylie’s dignity, posthumously. And if by some miracle she had been lying injured at the bottom of the cliff, Clements wanted to be the first to calm and comfort. But she had stopped to bag up the bottle because it was the right thing to do and Clements always did the right thing. It had only been a bloody dog in the end anyway. She hadn’t missed anything.
A bloody dog.
She wouldn’t want you to get her wrong, Clements is as much of a dog lover as the next person. She is glad they’d rescued the overly adventurous labradoodle from the cliff side, but the disappointment that the ’copter was out for a dog, not the missing bigamist, had been like a physical blow. Back then, she’d only been on the case a couple of weeks but Kylie Gillingham—rule breaker, lawbreaker, law unto herself—had got under the officer’s skin.
And now here she is, months later, standing in a field just a few miles away from that clifftop, waiting for a different helicopter to land. Daring to hope again. For something different this time. Something not as illustrious. Not a chance of recovering a woman, a wife, a mother—that was snuffed out but at least a chance of closure. Daan Janssen is going to show her where Kylie’s body is. She sped here, blue lights flashing, siren howling. Her obsession with the Kylie Gillingham case has in no way abated over these past months. If anything it has intensified.
This morning she believed Fiona Phillipson to be the killer. She was convinced that finally the answer she had was the right one. She felt sure of it in a way she had never been when placing Daan Janssen under arrest. She had arrested him because it was the correct thing to do; there was a body of evidence that pointed to him, it would have been irresponsible not to charge him, take him to trial and put him in front of a judge and jury. But something always nagged her about the evidence; it seemed a little too neat for her liking. A little too complete. Yes, initially she was delighted to discover Daan’s things at Fiona’s place, especially after he had denied ever being there, but on reflection, it struck her that the items he had supposedly left behind at his love nest were too emphatic. Too convenient. Boxers, a cuff link? Who wears cuff links at a beach? How do you leave one behind but take the other with you?
Clements has been trained to be logical and practical. The evidence was enough to create a case, but the nagging disquiet had not gone away during all these months when dealing with Janssen. Yes, he could come across as an arrogant tosser in interviews. Privileged, entitled and overly confident. He definitely presented a number of unlikable and unpopular traits, but she didn’t think of him as a vicious killer. He seemed so exasperated, so insulted by the charge. Interestingly, his indignant insistence that the police were idiots for suspecting him—which made Tanner furious and determined to send him down—had the effect of convincing Clements that he was indeed innocent of this crime. Not innocent per se—the man was far from that—but not a killer.
Then this morning, Tanner called with exactly the news the DC had been hoping for on some deep level. The bottle that she’d stopped to pick up on the clifftop, turned out to be gold. It had Fiona’s and Kylie’s fingerprints on it. Win. And forensics had also discovered traces of MDMA in the sediment in the bottom. There had been just a few drops of wine remaining but enough to categorically define this beverage was something much more insidious than a friendly tipple at a picnic. Then Mark Fletcher called and confessed that his boys might not actually be safe yet; that he hadn’t seen them for himself—only that Fiona had told him they were okay and with her, but that he’d begun to doubt her honesty, her trustworthiness. Clements felt at once horrified and vindicated, certain that Fiona had killed Kylie.
But how does that fit with Daan Janssen’s lawyer calling just after Mark and saying Janssen had confessed to the murder and that he wanted to charter a helicopter to come to Lyme Regis so he could show the police where he’d buried her body?
It doesn’t, obviously.
Clements feels disconcerted. These people! They are so damned tricky, so eternally slippery. One minute she is sure she has the measure of them, the next she is blindly stumbling around in a dense fog of uncertainties again.
“Why would Janssen confess to killing Kylie after all these months of denying it?” she asks Tanner.
“Guilty conscience,” he replies with a nonchalant nod. He is bouncing on the balls of his feet. He reminds her of a greyhound in a trap waiting for the off. Dogged, tenacious.
Clements shakes her head. Not disagreeing exactly, but certainly finding it hard to wholeheartedly acquiesce. “I don’t know. What if he didn’t do it?”
Tanner looks confused. He likes to deal in certainties. “But he’s said he did.”
“And why did he insist we meet him here in Lyme Regis?”
“To show us where the body is buried, apparently.”
“But he could have just told us where he buried it.”
“Clearly he has a penchant for the dramatic,” says Tanner, pulling a face that communicates he thinks the phrase “penchant for the dramatic” is contemptible, let alone the act. For the avoidance of doubt, he adds, “Twat.”
“This man doesn’t need to fight his way into the spotlight, it tends to find him,” points out Clements. Tanner tuts impatiently at that. All men are, on some level, jealous of Daan Janssen. They envy his wealth, his height, his charisma. Clements is aware of that, even if Tanner isn’t. “And where does Fiona fit in? Mark Fletcher called to say he doesn’t trust her.”
“Fletcher has just become anxious. He’s overthinking things. I tell you, we’ll get a call from the local copper soon saying he’s at Fiona’s place and that she and the kids are there, safe and well. I bet all three of them are eating ice cream or doing something equally innocuous.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Tanner nods. He daren’t say I am, although he wants to. “Janssen is the killer, he’s confessed as much. End of. Fiona is just a daft mare who wants to make herself indispensable to the grieving widower but has actually caused him added stress. We’re so close now, boss, I’m telling you. Nearly there.” Tanner is shouting above the sound of the helicopter’s blades as it gets nearer and louder. “Soon all will be revealed.”
“Just put a call in to the local station, will you? Ask how they’re getting on with the home visit?” Clements regrets delegating that job. She was on her way to Fiona’s house herself when Janssen’s lawyer called and said that his client insisted that she meet him here. She had to prioritize. Janssen said he wouldn’t deal with anyone else. Clements hates herself for feeling fleetingly flattered that he asked for her. She keeps telling herself that she is pleased because she’s won the trust of the suspect, built a relationship with him, and that will help her solve the case once and for all; it’s not that the hot villain is making her feel special. Still, she should have sent Tanner to Fiona’s place, not outsourced it to the local copper—it would have been better to keep it in the team—but Tanner is so obviously keen to have his moment. He wants to be there when they find the body. She doesn’t have it in her to deny him that. He has worked on this case almost as hard as she has.
Tanner makes the call to the local bobbies. He turns his back and walks away from the noise to do so. The moment he walks back to her, she knows from the expression on his face that something is up.
“What is it?”
“They were just about to call us. There’s been a break-in.”
“At Fiona’s?”
“Well, they think it’s a break-in. The kitchen window is smashed.”
“The boys?”
“No sign.”
“Fiona?”
Tanner shakes his head. He pulls his mouth into a thin line, clearly unnerved. This info muddies his theory that everything is finally clean-cut.
