Sinister, page 23
part #1 of Sinister Series
Besides, she’d never truly understood all the fuss. As children, boys were smelly. As teenagers, they were immature and smelly, and as adults… well, she just never felt interested in that way. Never felt those compulsions, those urges for a man or a woman. At least not until the day of her father’s funeral. That day in the bathroom.
Doctor Krauss had explained that it was a side effect of the trauma she had sustained as a child. A repressed fear of abandonment born out of the fact that she was abandoned by her mother, and thus she was repulsed by the very idea of intimacy for fear of being hurt. He told her that her feelings were transitional and would change over time. When she least expected it, those urges would awaken, and she would know that her time had come.
And it made sense.
Is that what was happening to her now? Was Christopher the one?
Ugh.
She shuddered as she watched the glow of amber-lit streets, and the angular silhouettes of buildings appear in the distance.
Sophie turned to her friend and gently touched her arm. “Vic?”
Seconds rattled by. Then, “Jonathan’s having an affair,” Victoria uttered.
The words were spoken so quietly they were almost lost in the din. Sophie spoke to her friend’s reflection in the window. “What did you say?”
“I think Jonathan’s seeing someone else.”
“No,” Sophie whispered in astonishment. “Why would you think that? How do you know?”
“Oh, you know. Texts. Work. Showers.”
“What?”
There was a long pause that was shattered by the rush and blur of a train travelling on the opposite track. It exploded past them, startling Sophie, but Victoria didn’t even flinch.
“He just keeps receiving loads of texts,” she said. “He’s always working late, and then… then he often comes home, smelling freshly showered.”
Sophie waited several seconds for more damning information, but there was none.
“Is that it?” she asked with a smile. “Is that all you have? He receives texts, works a lot, and smells fresh?”
Victoria finally turned to face her. Face blotchy. Eyeliner smudged. She had been crying. Sophie hadn’t witnessed that in a long time. Crying was for wimps, Victoria had declared many years before. This was bad.
“Vicki,” she began, but her friend cut her off.
“You don’t understand. The text messages are always written out of my eyeline. The phone calls are always explained away as work and taken in private. And it bloody stands to reason that you don’t come back from work smelling better than when you left. He’s showering somewhere else.”
“Oh Vic, come on. Have you even talked to him about it?”
“No, of course I fucking haven’t!”
A lady with white hair, in the seat in front, made a show of turning to look at them.
“What are you looking at?” Victoria growled. “Turn around and mind your own business. Go on!”
“Vicki, stop,” Sophie whispered, looking around them. Then, after waiting a few seconds for the moment of tension to pass, she continued in a hushed tone. “There’s probably some perfectly reasonable explanation, Vic.”
“What if there isn’t? Do you think he’s just going to confess?” She was shaking now, something else Sophie didn’t remember witnessing perhaps ever before.
“My God, Vicki. You’re really worried,” Sophie said, squeezing her friend’s arm.
“I can’t lose him, Soph. I can’t,” she said, quickly and seriously. “He’s all I have.”
Sophie pulled her friend into a hug and carefully stroked her hair while ensuring she wasn’t messing it. Victoria hated that. “Don’t be silly, you doughnut. You’re blowing this out of proportion. You’re not going to lose him, and besides, you’re not alone. You’ve got me.”
There was a pause, filled in by the squeak of the cabin and the clatter of steel followed by the ding dong of a bell announcing the next station.
Victoria spoke from her muffled position against her friend’s coat. “Only until you go and collect your crown as Countess whatsit.”
Sophie chuckled and broke the embrace. “Dirt, you mean. Before I collect my crown as Countess Dirt. What was it? Of dirt. From dirt? I don’t know.”
Victoria laughed. “God, I must look the pits,” she said.
Sophie was shaking her head. “No, you don’t. You look beautiful as always… just… with panda eyes.”
Victoria scoffed. “So much for permanent application. Do you know how much I spent on this stuff? Now it’s all down my bloody face. I look like one of those warriors.”
“That’s because you are,” Sophie said softly, eyes misting. She’d always been in awe of Victoria ever since the day they first met, when she’d stood up to that bully. This, her love for the man that gave her the one thing she’d craved all those years, was her only weakness. “I’m sorry,” Sophie said, feeling the strength of her friend’s pain even though she couldn’t empathise with it. Something else to discuss at her next session.
“Oh shit, it isn’t that bad, is it?” Victoria asked, looking at herself in the window’s reflection then reaching for her bag. As she did, she noticed the squinty eyes of the white-haired lady observing them through the headrests.
“Woman, seriously? If you don’t turn around, I’m going to poke those beady eyes out with my useless eyeliner.”
The woman scowled but turned to face forward.
Sophie continued as if her friend hadn’t just threatened a fellow passenger. “I’m so sorry, Vic. I’ve been too bloody self-absorbed lately to even ask how you’ve been,” she said.
“Shit, girl. Your so-called parents were lying arseholes, you’ve been suspended from your job—which, by the way, normally means you’ll be sacked or forced to resign—and you’re about to be made homeless. I think you’ve deserved some time focussing on yourself,” Victoria said dismissively.
“And there she is,” Sophie said with a forced laugh, applying fingers to her would-be leaky eyes.
They both allowed themselves some time to sift through thoughts as the train rolled to a stop. A trio of seemingly carefree teenage girls stood and left the train in a cloud of enviable giggles.
A gust of fresh frosty air rushed in like a harassed housemaid, eager to purify the cabin, before the doors beeped and closed once more.
As the train resumed its journey so did the conversation.
“He plays squash,” Sophie said, suddenly.
“What?”
“Jonathan plays squash, doesn’t he? That’s how he manages to keep fit and maintain that gorgeous body you love so much, right?”
“Yeah. I thought it might be that, but he doesn’t play squash all the time.”
“No, he doesn’t. But he does play other sports, Vic, hence the showers. Come on. Why would he want to stray when he has you?” Sophie gave her an encouraging smile that faded when she noticed the look on her friend’s face. She didn’t know what it meant, but it was clear that she hadn’t told her everything.
“What?”
Victoria shook her head but didn’t speak. She was busy staring at the back of the white-haired lady’s head, presumably wondering if the old bag was listening to their every word.
“Vic, what aren’t you telling me?” Sophie demanded, leaning forward, and twisting her friend’s face to make eye contact.
Victoria bit her lip then turned away from her once more, shaking her head as if struggling to keep the beast of her words from escaping the confines of her mouth.
This wasn’t lost on Sophie, who was unnerved to see her friend like this. “Vic? What’s the matter? Talk to me.”
She did. But the words were such a whisper that they were lost over the clank and din of the train. “What was that?” Sophie asked.
“I’m damaged,” Victoria repeated, turning but keeping her face bowed.
Sophie forced a laugh. “Yeah, well, we already know that,” she said, stopping when she realised her friend wasn’t sharing her amusement. “What?” she repeated. “For crying out loud, please look at me. What’s wrong? You’re starting to worry me.”
“The next station is…”
Victoria was about to speak but stopped when she heard the announcement. The train began to slow.
The white-haired woman gathered her belongings, rustling bags and zipping up her coat in readiness for exposure to the elements. Once the train stopped, she stood up with a turn to give Victoria one final glance.
Victoria stuck her tongue out. “Try not to slip and fall out there, won’t you?” she said with a fake smile.
The woman shook her head with disdain as she hustled out of the carriage and into the night, breath fogging out in front of her.
Cold, fresh air filled the cabin once more as they waited in silence. It was subliminally accepted by the both of them that if the train stopped so did their conversation. It was an unconscious policy, but necessary for privacy given that there were still a couple of suited men, as well as earphones guy, sharing the carriage with them.
The doors beeped and the train resumed its journey.
“I can’t have babies,” Victoria said miserably. “There’s something wrong with me.”
The news hit Sophie like a hammer. She knew how badly, desperately, her friend wanted to be a mother, but she had just assumed she was holding out for the right time. They often joked about how Victoria had only married her husband for his money while he had only married her to bear his children. It seemed like good banter, until now.
“I’ve been seeing my doctor for a while now. And it just isn’t looking good. I can’t seem to get pregnant,” Victoria continued, still avoiding eye contact with her friend. “The damage…” She trailed off here, as though realising she might end up sharing more than she wanted to.
But Sophie was hanging on her friend’s every word. “Damage? What damage?” she asked in a whisper, as if the men in suits across the aisle and three seats down might be interested.
Victoria hesitated and then said, “It doesn’t matter. The bottom line is, I don’t think I can give Jonathan kids.”
“Does he know?”
“No,” Victoria said sharply, as if the mere mention of it might beam the information to him. “And you can’t breathe a word, Soph,” she added quickly, desperately.
“Of course, of course. You know I wouldn’t,” Sophie reassured her. “How long have you known?”
“Not long.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
Victoria scoffed. “And send him screaming for the hills? No way. You know his parents. They hate me as it is already! But they’re pretty much royalty, Soph. You know that. Having children isn’t a choice, it’s a fucking duty!”
“You need to tell him, Vic. He has the right to know.”
“What?! You’re supposed to be on my side.” The comment was sudden and so loud, it prompted a glance from one of the men.
Sophie looked at him, smiled apologetically and then turned back to her friend. “I am on your side. Of course I am,” she whispered, as low as she could, as the lights of Cambridge city came into view. “But if you hide something as big as this from him now, it’s only going to make things worse further down the line. I know that, after today.”
“The next station is Cambridge. This train terminates here.”
And so did the conversation as they alighted and found a taxi that took them back to Fenfield, where neither woman was prepared for what awaited.
19
THE DEVIL’S WORK
FRIDAY NIGHT
Detective Inspector Patricia King was in a foul mood. She’d pulled extended shifts all week and hadn’t long been home when her mobile rang. It was her boss, who made no apology because these were extraordinary times. They were overstretched and she was needed at a serious crime scene in one of the city’s outer areas.
Another one?
She’d had a full bloody week of serious crime scenes, each and every one shittier than the last. They all reminded her how depraved so-called civilised humans could be. That was why, no matter how much she loved her job, she had been looking forward to some down time. If it was anyone else on the phone, she would have chewed them out, but the Chief Super wasn’t just her boss, he was a friend.
He had supported her promotions through the ranks during her fifteen years in the force, despite the fact most of them had proved challenging. Not because Patricia wasn’t capable – her appraisals were second to none – but simply because she was an unusually attractive female who also happened to be black. The assumption used to be that she bed-hopped her way through her promotions, until it then became about the colour of her skin. It used to infuriate her how her hard work and dedication to duty was reduced to the fitness of her body or the sapphire of her eyes. Then it frustrated her how her achievements were perceived as a woke box-ticking exercise that left no one willing to truly communicate with her, and her colleagues, mainly men, often deferring to her for fear of being tarred a racist as soon as any debate gained some heat.
In her opinion, all these so-called movements were doing nothing but stoking the fires of racism. They fostered a them and us mentality and perpetuated senses of entitlement to various degrees that were all, nonetheless, odious.
Which is why now, at the pinnacle of her career, she’d learned to not give a shit about the opinions of anyone other than those who mattered. It was an outlook that had served her well, albeit with some side effects; after barely three years of marriage, she was now party to an acrimonious divorce on the grounds of her husband being a militant prick.
Fenfield was much closer to the city than she remembered, more of an outskirt suburb than the satellite village she had thought it to be. The car had barely warmed up by the time she was turning into Meadow Lane, past trees that had been stripped of their summer beauty and autumn fire. The houses were large with relatively expensive cars parked out front. It was the kind of place people retired to when they were done selling their souls for a six-figure salary.
Onlookers, media trucks, and reporters swarming in jerky movements under the flickering lights of the two patrol cars blocking the street forced her to bring her vehicle to a rolling stop.
She swore and stepped out. She was wearing her jeans instead of her trouser suit, trainers instead of her black shoes, and was wrapped up in a coat that she usually considered too shabby for work. She’d topped the look with a black baseball cap with POLICE stamped on the front of it, for no other reason than it was the first thing she had been able to find. She’d already let her long wavy hair down when she got the call and was too tired to do anything with it.
But now, as reporters thrusted microphones and questions at her, she realised her mistake.
“Are you in charge?”
“Can you tell us your name?”
“What can you tell us about what’s happening here?”
“I just got here. Excuse me. I’ve just got here,” she said with a detached and professional smile, as she made her way through the crowd. “Just got here.”
By the time she reached the yellow police tape that was fluttering in the chill, it felt more like the finish line to a race.
There were a couple of ambulances on the other side of the boundary, as well as two vans, more patrol cars, more uniforms, and several SOCO, that one reporter was already explaining into her camera meant Scenes of Crime Officers.
Jesus. No wonder we’re overstretched.
She flashed her ID at the two officers who were repelling onlookers, and, only because she needed to, spoke to one of them.
“Where am I going?” she asked irritably. There was so much activity it was hard to tell.
“Depends which crime scene you’re after, guv,” the older of the two cops responded.
DI King frowned. “Which crime scene?”
Number 12 Meadow Lane felt colder inside than the world outside. King had barely stepped through the door when she barked, “All right, what do we know?” Her question was directed at nobody in particular as she made her way down the dimly lit hallway.
The scene reminded her of one of those bad movies, where investigators stumbled about in the dark by phone light instead of turning on the overheads or a lamp. That’s what they would normally do at a crime scene, whatever Hollywood would have people believe. In this case it was officers with flashlights, so her eyeroll was lost in the gloom.
“Has anybody even tried turning on a bloody light?” She reached for the switch on the wall with a gloved hand. The gloves were a gift from her soon to be ex-husband and about the only thing she was keeping from him, mostly out of practicality until she got a chance to buy a new pair for herself. Her hand paused when she stepped on something that crunched underfoot. “What the…?”
“It’s glass. All of the lightbulbs have been smashed,” said a faceless voice from the gloom.
“All of them?”
“Yep. Every single one.”
King rolled her eyes again. “Well, has anybody thought about getting some mobile lights in here, for crying out loud?”
“Yeah, they should be here soon,” the voice said, this time from over her right shoulder, startling her.
“You know, sneaking up on people like that is a good way of getting yourself a punch in the face,” she grumbled.
“Sorry, guv,” the voice said. “Wasn’t intentional.”
King couldn’t see the man’s face, but she was sure there was a smile in those words. “Yeah? Well, you may want to check that. Where am I going?” she asked, rooting around in her pocket for her phone before remembering she’d left it in the car. “Shit.”
A phone light appeared out of the darkness, the beam leading to the stairs. “Up the stairs, left into the bedroom, then left again into the ensuite,” the voice spoke once more. It had a faint lilt of an accent. Yorkshire, maybe. She wasn’t sure.
“What’s with all the activity in the back garden then?” she asked, looking down the long space that must be the corridor to the lights bobbing around at the rear of the property.
