Blood Notes, page 6
‘Anyway, the lab’s got them now. Her parents are on their way back from France. Someone was in the house with her while they were away. You say she had a boyfriend?’
‘Jake Martin. I was speaking to him earlier. He’s really cut up.’
Hale’s question prodded her to ask herself if Jake could have been involved. If he was, how? What was his motive? Jake had been distraught and in a real state earlier. The image of him beside her on the bench, unable to stop himself crying, pushed itself into the front of her mind. Could all that have been a show?
Hale’s phone rang. He swivelled in the chair, pulled the phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen. ‘Sorry, Steph – need to take this.’ He leaped to his feet and went into the corridor. As he closed the door he laughed, ‘You’re joking!’
The sun had gone in and the room had become darker. She pulled the curtain back and looked at the entrance leading down to Woodbridge Road. It was deserted. The college, so vibrant at the start of term, crammed with students laughing and squealing, was now a quiet, subdued place. The volume had been turned down.
How many murders had she and Hale worked together? Eleven, or was it twelve? Yes – twelve murders over their nine years together, but Justine’s death felt very different. Steph was taken aback by her reaction. Now, just as she was constructing a new future, her past had gate-crashed. She hadn’t expected crime to follow her to the college, certainly not a murder. Not only that, but this time she found that she was emotionally involved and shared the students’ deep sadness at Justine’s death.
Could it be murder? Hale seemed to think it could. Violent death could happen anywhere; of course it could. But Justine’s death felt so very tragic and out of place in this world of hopeful young lives. If this was murder, why did it feel so different from those in her past? Justine was not just a dead body – Steph had seen her living her life, even if it was just for a couple of weeks. Justine was a gifted girl who had a shining future. Today that had disappeared. Either she had cut her own life short or someone had taken it from her. Either way, life felt unfair, shitty. Irritated and angry, she fiddled with a loose button hanging out of the arm of the red leather chair, trying to twist it back in. She pulled it off.
Hale made her jump when he bounced back in. ‘Now, where was I? If someone brought Justine here they must have hit your CCTV cameras somewhere. Where are they?’
‘On the three main entrances to college. We don’t have cameras outside the music centre, which is in the middle of the campus, nor the pedestrian path. I can have a word with Dick, if you like – he’s in charge of the CCTV?’
‘No need, thanks, I’ll get Joyce onto it. Don’t you worry.’
Steph smiled to hide the feeling of not being invited to the party. Hale scanned the last few pages of his notebook, his head down, now engrossed.
‘Right, if that’s all, Hale, I’ll be getting back to reception – you know where I am if you want me.’
‘Sorry, thinking about something. Strange to meet like this again. We made a good team, didn’t we? And there was always your Mike to make sure we stayed on the straight and narrow. I miss him. We all do. But you seem to be doing well now after your – your illness.’
Sensitive of Hale to use ‘illness’ rather than ‘nervous breakdown’. Doctors now call it anxiety or depression. But she’d felt broken down, all right – a weak, shattered failure. Numb depression after Mike’s death, then hiding that evidence, sucked her into a bottomless drain. Getting through each hour, then each day, had been so tough. Hale was right. She stood to leave.
‘We’ll need a formal statement,’ he said. ‘The Principal and Margaret Durrant are coming down after college. Five pm. And if you hear anything you think may help, you’ve still got my number?’
‘Yes. Thanks, Hale. Good to see you again.’
Chapter Thirteen
Steph
Well over fifty students, heads bowed, hushed, now stood at the edge of the shrine of flowers when Steph joined them. The group had swelled since she was there earlier. Despite their cancelled lessons, they wanted to spend the day in college. They needed to be together. Arms around shoulders and waists, they stood in huddles, sniffing into tissues, comforting each other, fending off the shock of death.
Peter joined her, then turned and handed a tissue to a girl with tears rolling down her cheeks. He touched Steph’s arm and they moved to the back of the group. He murmured, ‘This is dreadful. That poor girl. Whatever made her do it?’
For a moment she paused and considered her response. Despite Peter’s earlier suspicions that Justine’s death could have been murder, he appeared to have reverted to suicide. She felt conflicted. Did she tell her new boss all that she knew or remain loyal to her old one? She decided not to reveal the information Hale had shared with her.
‘I suppose we’ll find out. There were no signs that she might have had problems?’
‘None that reached me. Justine was an outstanding student. I suspect it was something outside college.’
‘Really?’
‘At this age everything is so extreme… final. Unfortunately, with this age group all too often we’ll have a fatal car crash with a new driver or a suicide – male, mostly. And over what we might think of as not being worth a life. Last year one boy drove his parents’ car into the garden wall, and when they returned from holiday, they found the car on a pile of bricks and their son hanging from the banisters. What a waste of a life!’
‘How dreadful.’
Peter sighed and scanned the students. ‘I’ve arranged for a counsellor to be available in the chaplain’s room for a couple of weeks. In my experience bereavement is the final taboo for them, especially when it’s one of their friends. In personal-social education they get masses on sex and drugs, but they have no idea how to cope with loss and death.’
‘I don’t think many of us do.’
‘You’re right. Justine’s death will be devastating for many of her friends for weeks and months to come. Look at them – they’re confused and lost.’
He glanced towards a group to his left. ‘But at this stage there are some who thrive on the drama. Keep an eye on that group, will you? We don’t need mass hysteria breaking out. See you later.’
She looked across at the students Peter had indicated. Three girls, dressed from head to foot in black, nudged their way to the front of the group and comforted each other noisily. One of them wore a long black frock with a dramatic Spanish lace mantilla arranged over her head. The two girls either side of her wore black Goth leggings and tops – one turned inside out to hide the slogan printed on it, now a faint shadow. One of the Goths stepped towards long-frock to whisper something, her red converse boots creating a startling fluorescent flash against the sombre mass of black. Those girls were in the year below Justine. If they had known her at all, it was only for a couple of weeks.
Steph watched as long-frock elbowed red-converse, showed her a roll-up she’d pulled from her pocket and swivelled her eyes to the door muttering, ‘C’mon babe.’ So, they were off for a smoke. Steph cast an experienced eye over the rollie and smiled with relief to see it was weedy – thin, not illegal: more dramatic effect than serious stuff then. The girls moved outside to the smoking area.
A shadow slid beside her as a boy bent down to add more flowers to the edge of the flood of blooms. A string-tied, natural selection of rose-hips, lavender and feathery reeds arranged against a large spray of rosemary, it contrasted with the gaudy greenhouse pinks and purples of supermarket sprays. The boy stood up, stepped back, paused. He bowed his head, as if laying a wreath at a remembrance ceremony. Steph turned to face Edmund.
‘That’s a beautiful tribute, Edmund.’
‘I felt it was right for Justine. She would have liked it, I think.’
A space melted around them as the students turned inward or moved their feet slightly. A couple sneered at his contribution. No one acknowledged him.
‘Justine had a rare talent, you know. She’d have gone so far.’ Edmund bent down and pushed a sprig of rosemary back inside the string.
‘Yes, I was at the concert on Friday.’
‘We planned to work together as a duo, you know, violin and cello. We’d made plans, even arranged a rehearsal.’
‘Really?’
‘We’d have been amazing together. She had a real feel for the music. We might have… and now we can’t. Do you know what made her commit suicide?’
‘How d’you know it was suicide?’
‘That message on the front door.’
‘I think it said “Death of a student”, not suicide.’
Edmund bent down again to push some rose-hips further into the arrangement. Satisfied, he stood up and turned to Steph. ‘Well, the others are saying it’s suicide.’
‘If it is, do you have any idea why she might have killed herself?’
‘I didn’t know her that well.’ He paused, about to fiddle again with his flowers, then changed his mind. ‘Perhaps she had a row with her boyfriend?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘What the others are saying. What she said to me while we were practising.’ He paused. Steph waited, giving him space. ‘Jake didn’t like the same things as Justine. She said they were always arguing. Maybe they had a big fall out and she… well… couldn’t cope and… What do you think happened?’
Steph decided not to get drawn into his speculation. ‘I’ve no idea, but it is so very, very sad.’ Side by side, they watched the flowers drooping.
‘Will the police be here long?’ Edmund, it seemed, wanted to keep talking.
‘As long as it takes, I suppose. They’ll find out what happened.’
‘Right – yes, of course they will. I hope they do. Poor Justine. Thank you so much, Mrs Grant.’ Edmund turned and walked down the corridor. Gazing after him, she wondered at his uniqueness. In his blazer and chinos, he looked so different from the other students, and he didn’t seem to notice or to mind. He appeared to live in a single column on a spreadsheet headed ‘cello’. He was immensely talented, and that distorted people sometimes.
She noticed that Jake also stared after the retreating Edmund. In his arms he cradled a gigantic bunch of delicate champagne rosebuds. Once again he stood alone. Apart from the others. Hood up. Head down. No eye contact with anyone. Strange; why aren’t they cuddling him? Jake’s need for comfort must be the greatest of all. Perhaps the students feared touching him in case they caught something. That’s what it looked like, as if he had some communicable disease. If they got too close, would they catch death too? Did they suspect he had something to do with it?
Steph edged beside him as he reverently placed the rosebuds so they covered the edge of Edmund’s wild flowers. The temptation to investigate was impossible to resist. Hale had wondered if Justine’s boyfriend might be involved somehow. Maybe this time she could find out how. It would be worth a try to see if he would talk to her again.
‘They’re beautiful, Jake.’
‘Yes. I got them in town. Justine loved that colour. She wore roses like that on her prom dress in Year 11. That was the first time we went out. Properly went out, you know. That night she looked so...’ He burrowed deep inside his grey hoodie to hide his tears, then he exploded into loud sobs and started to shake.
‘Jake, why don’t we get away from the crush for a while? You look shattered. Take five minutes’ break, then come back.’
Unable to speak, Jake looked up and nodded. Too involved in their own grief, the students didn’t notice him going. Shutting the meeting room door, Steph turned to see Jake slumped in the bucket chair. He looked empty, as if he’d lost everything – with no future, no dreams.
‘Perhaps you should go home and sleep for a bit.’
He looked up, his eyes now bloodshot dots sunk deep in puffy eyelids. ‘Have they found out who did this to Justine?’
‘You think someone did this, don’t you?’ Steph prompted him. Jake looked down at the dark blue carpet. Grabbing another tissue, he blew his nose. Silence.
‘I know Justine didn’t commit suicide – I know she didn’t.’
‘They’re looking at everything, Jake. You want them to do that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do. It’s just—’
‘What?’
‘Oh – I suppose it doesn’t matter now...’
‘What doesn’t matter?’
‘What Justine’s parents think. Look – I was there, at her house, over the weekend while her parents were away. Well… you know… we were together.’
‘Hmm?’
‘I went round to Justine’s house on Saturday after her mum and dad left for France for the weekend. And we worked – college work. Justine practised her audition piece while I got on with my computing course work. It’s due in next week.’ He stopped. She waited. ‘I sat working in her garden, under their apple tree. I could hear her playing through the French windows. Justine worked so hard. We both did. Until he came.’
‘He?’
‘That new kid – Edmund.’
‘Edmund came?’
‘Yes, he didn’t know I was there at first. Justine didn’t let him in. I could hear them talking at the front door. He said he was sorry for what happened at the concert, that Justine should have gone last, but Weston made him. He gave her a bottle of red wine, a posh one with a flash label, to say sorry. When I went into the hall, he saw me and left.’
‘Did you drink it?’
Jake looked at her as if she was suddenly speaking a foreign language. ‘Of course we did!’ She smiled and let him continue. ‘We cooked tea together. Just the two of us. I bought some steak from Millers, the butchers, and we had steak and chips with the wine. It was even fun washing up after. Like we lived there together… you know.’
‘I know.’ She echoed Jake’s words.
‘We had breakfast there on Sunday too.’
‘Right. Then?’
‘I went home to look after my sister, Helen. If only I’d stayed with Justine. I shouldn’t have left her alone. If she did… I could have stopped her, couldn’t I?’
‘You mustn’t think like that, Jake. We don’t know what happened. The police will find out.’
He shifted in the chair about to get up, then sat back down.
‘Are you OK?’ Steph leaned forward.
‘I keep thinking, why? Why did she have to die? I miss her so much already.’ Jake put his hands on the edge of the arms and pushed, but once again sat back. ‘I have a really bad headache – do you have any pills, please?’
Steph moved to the door. ‘I think you should go home and rest, Jake. Let me tell Mr Bryant, then I’ll drive you home.’
‘Thanks.’ He sat back and closed his eyes. His face drained of colour. He looked so young, so vulnerable.
Chapter Fourteen
Steph
As they walked across the car park, Steph raised her face to catch the late afternoon sunshine before it went behind a heavy grey cloud. Jake, walking alongside her, staggered a little. She held him by his elbow, ready to catch him, and supported him to her car.
When she’d returned from getting Peter’s permission to take him home, she found Jake had sunk deep into himself. She recognised the symptoms. He was suffering, and if he was alone for long, the hopeless spiral could take over and the temptation to stop the pain might be too great. His sister, Helen, should be back from school, even if his mother was still at work. Steph knew all about loss. As an adult, she had struggled to get through each day. At his age, all emotions were magnified, and he’d be convinced it was the end of his world. For a time, it would be.
In the diluted autumn sunshine, they drove through the common past the duck pond. During the summer drought, it had shrunk to a grey muddy puddle littered with old crisp bags and fag packets. Three children were throwing bread at some shabby ducks, which gobbled the crusts greedily. Two mothers nattered and jiggled the pushchairs to keep their babies asleep.
‘Justine and I used to walk this way home after college. We’d sit over there.’ He pointed to a seat on the other side of the pond. ‘We’d talk about our day. It was great to have someone to share everything with. She was my best friend.’
Steph noticed that for the first time, Jake had used the past tense. It was the start of a very long, very painful process. He would have a tough time over the next year. They came to a part of town she didn’t know. She slowed, then stopped at a T-junction. ‘Now where do I turn here?’
His eyes had misted over and he looked at the road as if he was seeing it for the first time. An impatient driver in the car behind hooted his horn, and in the mirror Steph could see him waving his hands at the empty road.
She turned left, hoping it was correct, and was relieved when the car behind turned right. She crawled along the road, waiting for Jake to give her directions. They reached the edge of Oakwood, past The White Swan, a scruffy pub where Saturday night fights broke out and ended before the police arrived. They cruised past a terrace of 1960s council houses. The clouds had become solid grey and it started raining, the first time for weeks.
‘Here. Left. This is my road.’ They drove until Jake pointed to a house. ‘It’s here.’ Jake reached for the door handle as she pulled into the kerb behind a white VW Golf. In the centre of Jake’s front garden, a well-tended clump of orange roses still flowered, and the dark green front door looked as if it had been recently painted. How different compared to the house next door, where a supermarket trolley nestled in the long grass alongside old Guinness cans and a broken, pink plastic highchair.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome, Jake. Is that your mother’s car?’
‘Yes. She’s home.’
‘Good. See you tomorrow.’
Jake hesitated, one foot on the pavement. He turned to face her.
‘Do you think Weston could have done it?’
‘What makes you think that?’
