Nothing But Trouble, page 27
part #11 of Jessica Daniel Series
Dr Layton’s cottage was a few miles outside Chester, away from busy roads, sitting on the border between Wales and England. It was utterly beautiful, hard to tell if it had been built hundreds of years previously and restored, or if it had been custom-built. There was a thatched roof and thick dark slats, with everything decked out like a small medieval pub. The backdrop was a vast breadth of fields and trees, the smell of recently cut grass drifting on the warm, gentle breeze as a tractor blazed across a velvety field on a bank in the distance. The type of place in which to retire and reflect on a life well spent.
The front door was opened by Layton’s carer, a woman in her thirties, wearing a white apron and slightly out of breath. She checked her watch. ‘I told you it was cutting it fine, even if you came straight here.’
‘I promise we won’t take long,’ Jessica replied.
The carer was annoyed. ‘I know you won’t – he’s not been out of bed for two days. You did hear me when I told you he has cancer.’
‘I heard but I still need to ask him a question.’
‘You can ask all you want but if he doesn’t answer – or can’t – you’ll have to leave. I don’t care if you are the police. I’m trusted to look after him and that doesn’t involve upsetting his routine.’
Jessica didn’t argue, following the woman through a low hallway into what would have once been the living room. One half still was, with a television, sofa and armchair, but the other had been converted into a makeshift bedroom. There was a double bed pushed against a wall next to a pair of machines with dials on the front. Jessica didn’t know what they did but there was also a stand holding a bag of transparent liquid and a tube hooping down under the bedcovers.
‘Dr Layton . . .’ The carer was at his side speaking softly but not touching him. ‘. . . those people are here to see you.’
The bedcovers were tucked tightly, wedging the doctor underneath. He was turned to one side, skin grey, cheekbones sharp, almost skeletal as if there wasn’t enough skin to stretch across the shape of his face. He had some small patchy tufts of grey hair but was mostly bald. He looked as ill as anyone Jessica had ever met.
The carer helped him to roll over in order to see Jessica and Izzy, then fussed around him, puffing up a pillow and pressing the palm of her hand to his forehead.
‘Would you like some water?’ she asked.
Layton tried to shake his head but could barely manage to move. His breaths were shallow and scratchy.
‘Can I get you anything else?’ she added.
Another shake.
The carer frowned at Jessica. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes.’ She stood still and then re-emphasised the point. ‘Five minutes.’
‘Okay.’
When the door was closed, Layton started shuffling, gasping and kicking until he’d loosened the covers. He pressed back onto his pillow, exhausted.
Jessica was wary of the time but didn’t want to speak too quickly because she wasn’t convinced he could follow her. ‘Dr Layton, I’m investigating something in Manchester which has led me to you. I’ve got a few instances of twenty-somethings sharing the same father, who is unknown to them. None of them knows each other but they share one thing in common – their mothers were treated by you.’
His head dipped up and down slowly, barely moving.
‘Is there anything you can think of to explain that?’
Layton’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish.
‘These families are real people, desperate for answers.’
He was fighting the covers again, managing to snake a frail arm out of the side of the bed towards her.
‘Do you want something?’ Jessica asked. ‘Water?’
His reply was croaky and painful, though the minuscule hint of a smile told Jessica all she needed to know about the devil lying in front of her. ‘I knew you’d come one day . . .’
42
By the time Jessica called Topper and told him what she’d discovered, any thought of DSI Jenkinson shifting the investigation to headquarters had been forgotten. The triple murder was almost a side issue, with a crime far more serious to unravel. Someone would need to speak to Richard Hyde but it would be days before anyone knew what to tell him. Jessica had her own ideas.
She arrived home a little before seven, conscious of how important the evening was to Bex, perhaps her as well. The house smelled of the greatest thing known to mankind. If stores wanted to entice people in, they should forget the aroma of freshly baked bread and go for gravy. Bex was in the kitchen, crouched in front of the oven, trying to peer through the grease-coated door.
‘How do people get all this stuff ready at the same time?’ she asked.
‘You’re really asking the wrong person.’
Bex opened the oven, wafting the intoxicating smell of roast potatoes across the kitchen. Jessica’s mouth started to water. She’d had an awful day but this wasn’t a bad way to finish it. Bex closed the door and fiddled with the cooker dial.
‘I thought you were going to be late,’ she said.
‘I know how important tonight is to you.’
Bex didn’t reply, turning back to the stove and stirring the delicately bubbling pan of vegetables.
Helena arrived a little after half seven, out of breath and muttering about the buses. Jessica found herself wanting to dislike Bex’s mother for reasons she knew were entirely selfish. She didn’t want Bex to leave and return to the person who’d put her through so much.
As well as cooking, Bex had cleaned the living room and laid the table. Shortly after Helena arrived, the three of them were sitting down to eat a monstrous roast meal. It would have been quite an effort for a Sunday lunchtime, let alone a warm Tuesday evening. Bex had made enough for seven or eight people, with platefuls of roast and new potatoes, carrots, beans, Yorkshire puddings, beef, parsnips and a jug – an actual jug! – of steaming, thick gravy. For the first few minutes, none of them spoke, focusing on the food instead. Jessica couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten so well. For Bex herself, this would have been enough to feed her for a week when she lived on the streets.
Eventually their bellies began to fill – well, Jessica and Helena’s, Bex had no such trouble, continuing to eat and eat.
Helena was staring around the living room, momentarily gazing at the photo of Jessica and Adam before moving on. ‘This is a nice place.’
‘Thank you,’ Jessica replied.
She nodded at the photo. ‘Is he . . . ?’
‘It’s complicated. He’s not around at the moment.’
‘Okay . . .’
Helena peered from Jessica to Bex and back again. ‘Do you have any children?’
‘Just me.’
‘And you’re a police officer. I suppose that means you have odd hours . . . ?’
‘Sometimes. I make it work.’
‘Mum . . .’
Bex cut across them both with a single word. Jessica had interviewed enough people to know when someone was getting at her. Helena wasn’t as skilled as the many who’d tried in the past. She was looking for holes in the relationship Jessica had with Bex, wanting to point out how valid she was as an alternative. Bex was clever enough to see it too. She continued chewing, drawing the attention of the two older women, making them wait until she was ready.
Jessica felt as if she was waiting at the back of a courtroom having given evidence. Even when things were tough, she could cope when she was able to influence the outcome. Being in court was the worst: you’d be as honest as you could and stand firm, even when the defence solicitor did all he could to call you a liar without actually using the word. When the magistrates or jury left to reach a decision, it felt like they were casting a verdict on you as a person. Were you believable? Likeable? A nice person? It didn’t matter how many times you had been in court, there was always a horrifying sense of nerves. Were the magistrates or jury looking at you? The victim? The accused? Heads, you’re decent; tails, you’re a dick.
It was nothing to do with the food but Jessica’s stomach was gurgling, butterflies bursting from their cocoons and having a ruck.
Bex licked her lips and clicked her tongue piercing against her teeth. She was focusing on her mother, voice husky and nervous. ‘I’m going to stay here, Mum.’ Almost instantly she turned to Jessica. ‘If that’s all right with you?’
‘Of course.’
Helena’s chin plopped to her chest. ‘Oh.’
‘It’s not you, Mum, it’s me. Life’s stable here and that’s what I need. I’m going to start my course in September and see how it goes. I might hate it, I could drop out after a few months and want to try something else. I’ll see how it goes.
‘Right.’
‘Mum.’
Helena didn’t look up. ‘What?’
Bex waited, firmly in control. Jessica wondered when she’d made the decision. She herself was so conflicted, thankful that Bex was staying but guilty at the same time. She was an adult, supposedly mature, yet she was clinging onto relief that an eighteen-year-old had chosen her. It felt pathetic. Whether or not she liked it, Helena was Bex’s mother. She shouldn’t feel such pleasure.
Bex’s mother eventually peered up, making eye contact.
‘I still want you in my life,’ Bex said, ‘but I can’t forget everything that happened . . . not yet.’
‘Okay.’
‘Are you all right?’ Bex added.
Helena shrugged, gazing back at her plate, like a petulant child. Jessica didn’t exactly blame her. She’d have had her heart set on getting away from the housing project, into her own place with her daughter at her side. Now, she’d have to come up with something else. For a horrifying moment, Jessica thought either Bex or Helena was going to ask if they could both stay. Jessica’s mind raced, trying to think of reasons why that couldn’t happen, something other than the truth that she didn’t want it.
The suggestion never came.
Bex continued eating, the scraping of her knife and fork the only sound until she put them down and said she was going to the toilet. Her footsteps echoed up the stairs, leaving Jessica and Helena alone. Jessica had felt more comfortable sitting opposite any of the crime bosses than next to Bex’s mother.
Helena’s voice was low enough that no one could overhear. ‘I guess you win.’
‘I didn’t realise it was a competition.’
‘She’s my daughter.’
A long list of critical replies flitted through Jessica’s thoughts – ‘Then why didn’t you act like it?’, ‘You could’ve fooled me’, ‘Is that how a mother treats a daughter?’ She batted them away, not wanting to argue.
‘I’ve never tried to say she isn’t.’
‘Then why don’t you tell her to leave?’ Helena nodded at the photo of Jessica and Adam. ‘You have someone.’
‘Bex isn’t a possession, she’s—’
‘Her name’s Rebecca. I named her.’
‘She’s eighteen and can make her own decisions. I never asked her to stay, I just said that she could. It won’t be long and she’ll be off doing her own thing; travelling, going to university, meeting a boy or girl who she likes.’
‘She’s not a lezzer.’ Helena’s eyes arrowed in on Jessica, seeing something that wasn’t there. ‘Is that why—?’
‘Of course not.’
Helena used her fingers to pick up the mushy remains of a potato, blobs of gravy dribbling onto the plate. ‘Blood will always win out. There’s nothing like a bond between a parent and child.’ She chewed the potato and swallowed. ‘Well, what’ve you got to say?’
‘I . . . I’m not sure. I was thinking.’
‘About what?’
‘Maybe you’re right? Blood’s won out.’
‘What are you talking about? She picked you.’
‘I didn’t mean Bex.’
Helena was silenced by the flushing toilet and Bex’s descending footsteps. The teenager re-entered the living room, smiling at them both, hands on hips. ‘Now, seeing as I cooked, I was hoping you’d both do the washing up . . .’
Jessica and Bex’s mother were finally united by a collective sigh that made Bex giggle. She turned to her mum: ‘If you want a rest first, I can show you some photos of my birthday party . . . ?’
Helena smiled, genuinely as far as Jessica could tell. It felt like their whispered argument was more disappointment on Helena’s behalf than anything particularly vicious.
Bex took out her phone, pressing the button on top and then flipping it around. ‘Aah . . . battery needs charging.’ She turned to Jessica. ‘Are there some on your phone?’
‘Yeah, though I’ve probably got more of the food than I have the people.’
Jessica shifted her plate to the side and put her phone on the table, flicking through the photographs one by one for Helena to see. Bex talked her mum through the names of her friends as Jessica thumbed across the touchscreen. She continued scrolling until moving one photo too far, settling on the e-fit of the woman who’d robbed her next-door neighbour. It was only on there because she’d shown it to Nerys.
‘Oops,’ Jessica said, scrolling back quickly.
‘Go back,’ Helena said.
‘You shouldn’t really have seen that.’
‘Why have you got a picture of Fiona on your phone?’
Jessica zoomed back to the e-fit of the woman she knew as Annie. ‘You know this person?’
‘It’s Fiona from downstairs. I told you – she only has a couple of weeks before she moves into her own place. She’s making decent money working the city – that’s why she’s been clearing out her clothes.’
Jessica remembered the overflowing bag when she and Bex had first visited Helena. If Annie was Fiona, then the ‘decent money’ the woman was making belonged to other people. It was no wonder she was giving away her old clothes if she had enough to afford new ones. Jessica put her phone away, telling Bex and Helena she’d do the washing up – but then she had a few calls to make.
43
It took three days for Jessica and her team to collate the rest of the information they’d been looking for. Despite DCI Topper claiming the Serious Crime Division would never let her anywhere near Richard Hyde, they were willing to do just that. She was the one who’d figured it out, after all. The surveillance engineer managed to wire her up without any accidental groping and off she went into Hyde’s casino a little after ten on Friday morning. He’d picked the time and place.
Hyde opened the door, letting Jessica through the front entrance. He peered past her towards her parked car, unable to see, but probably suspecting, the unmarked van parked a short distance across the retail park. He might be many things but stupid wasn’t one of them.
Jessica expected there to be an army of staff cleaning, polishing and readying the casino for opening but the main gambling floor was eerily quiet. The lights of the fruit machines twinkled, sparkled and rippled in silent rainbow waves of colour.
Hyde was wearing a suit that was smart but crumpled, as if he’d slept in it. His hair was ruffled and there was a sprinkling of stubble across his face. He was striding quickly as Jessica hurried to keep up.
‘Is Natalie around?’ she asked.
‘It’s just us. Did you want her?’
‘I was more interested in you.’
Hyde continued until he was behind the bar. He plucked two heavy glasses from under the counter and placed them on the surface with a heavy thud.
‘What are you drinking?’ he asked.
‘I’m on shift.’
‘If you want to talk, then you’re going to drink.’
‘Whatever you’re having.’
Hyde skimmed his gaze across the rack of spirits before reaching to the back and pulling out a bottle of brown liquid. He read the label, then moved back to the counter. ‘Single malt, eighteen years.’
‘Okay.’
He poured two generous measures and passed her one, raising his glass. ‘To the end.’
‘Is it?’ Jessica asked.
‘You tell me.’
‘Do you know the name Dr Matthew Layton?’
Hyde took a sip, nodding for Jessica to do the same. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘He’s a fertility doctor who ran a private clinic in Manchester.’
Hyde nodded slowly. ‘I don’t remember the name, but there was a small hospital . . .’
Jessica took a tiny mouthful of the whisky but it didn’t burn like many she’d tried. She still shouldn’t be drinking, though. ‘I hope you can understand why this has taken time, but Dr Layton impregnated at least fourteen women with his own sperm instead of that of his clients. We might never know the full details but he preyed on certain types of women, primarily those whose first attempt at IVF didn’t work. We’ve found thirteen former patients of his, all of whom were told their second attempt had also failed, only for them to become pregnant within weeks, sometimes days. Each time, Dr Layton told them that fertility drugs can spur the reproductive system into action, which it can, except that wasn’t true in their cases. Each woman thought it was a pure conception with their partner, when it was Layton himself who’d fertilised their eggs.’
There was a small nod. ‘You changed the number: fourteen women, then thirteen former patients . . . ?’
‘That’s because we can’t speak to the fourteenth . . .’
The glass was beginning to shake in Hyde’s hand. He tried to take a sip but the whisky ended up dribbling along his chin. He put it down and then, from nowhere, burst into tears. It was uncomfortable enough when anyone was crying, let alone when it was an older man barely metres away from a long row of blinking slot machines. Jessica didn’t feel sorry for him, not after everything she was certain he’d done. Hyde squeezed the bridge of his nose, trying to make his emotions go away, but his entire body was heaving.
‘That’s why Richie wasn’t mine . . .’
‘Yes.’
Hyde’s croaky gasps were hard to make out: ‘Lisa . . .’ Jessica waited, unsure what to say. ‘Why would he tell them they weren’t pregnant?’ Hyde added.
‘Dr Layton isn’t speaking. He can’t. We’re assuming he told the women that because there would be fewer questions. If someone had a son who looked nothing like them who came via IVF treatment, they might query it. With a natural conception – especially for a “miracle baby” – most parents would be blinded.’
