Her Husband’s Grave

Like everything else, it was within walking distance – but Robyn took the car anyway, as she figured it would be quicker. Though not before Vicky had shown her where to put her case – the spare room Robyn was presently standing in and remembering her day …

Robyn had found the place she was looking for without much difficulty this time, a squat but long two-storey brick building with a grey entrance lumped on the side. A faded yellow handrail guided the way to the door, covered by one solitary CCTV camera, and when she entered Robyn found it pretty quiet inside the waiting room. Only two people sat in there, one guy with his head in his heads for some reason. The desk sergeant on duty, leaning on the wooden desk in question, was talking to a thin man with a backpack. There was no glass – safety or otherwise – separating them and she thought to herself what a far cry from Gateside all this was.

Not safe, not secure.

Posters covered the walls in that room, some dating back to the years of ‘Watch Out! There’s a Thief About!’ – the helpful illustration of a silhouetted man stealing a letter getting the message across for the hard of understanding. She pretended to read some of them while the sergeant and thin man conducted their business, but couldn’t help overhearing the tail end of the conversation.

‘Well, could you just let them know that Jeremy Platt was in again. And if there’s anything else I can do to help …’

The sergeant, whose comb-over wasn’t fooling anyone and who looked about one pork pie away from going the way of late Uncle Trevor – a heart attack in his fifties – nodded. ‘Yes, I’ll tell them, Jeremy.’ The use of the man’s first name and the conversational manner implied that they knew each other. ‘Just like I told them yesterday and the day before. They have your statement.’

‘Yes. Yes, I know. I just thought maybe we might have missed something about that morning. I was the person who found him, you know.’

The desk sergeant sighed. ‘I know you were. We all do. But I’m sure Inspector O’Brien and DS Watts didn’t miss anything. They know what they’re doing.’ He emphasised ‘they’ to drive home the fact that this man was not actually part of whatever inquiry was happening, regardless of what he thought. ‘Look, shouldn’t you be somewhere else. Your dad?’

The man hung his head, and sighed himself. ‘Yes, right. Okay. But if you need me, Bob, you know how to get hold of me. I’ll be at the hospital, Chester Ward. But I’ll have my mobile on me. The number’s—’

‘Yes, yes. We have your numbers, Jeremy – mobile, and landline. Thank you!’ For a second or two, Robyn thought the sergeant was going to come round and start chasing the man away with a broom. She watched as he slunk off without any further provocation however, wondering if what she’d heard related to Simon’s case at all. If it didn’t, then given his talk of finding someone, Golden Sands was rapidly become a crime capital. Then again, how did she know the man was talking about a person? ‘Him’ might have been a pet dog for all Robyn knew, though somehow she doubted it.

Facing front, now the way was clear, she’d stepped up to the desk, ignoring the way the policeman there was looking her up and down. Robyn couldn’t tell if he was being lecherous or just didn’t like strangers in his nick. Possibly both, she decided. Another ‘warm’ welcome. ‘Yes, miss,’ he said at last. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’d like to speak with the people in charge of the Carter case, please.’

The comb-over man’s left eyebrow – which, as if to mock the top of his head, was thick and bushy – had shot up. ‘I see. And who might you be?’

‘I might be the cousin of the victim’s spouse,’ she informed him, her back up.

His right eyebrow rose now to match the other one. ‘Right. I see … Very well, I’ll go and see if they’re around.’

He disappeared momentarily, leaving her to stare at the posters once again. When he returned, the sergeant told her that there was nobody around who could see her right at that moment and perhaps she could come back another time.

It was Robyn’s turn to sigh. ‘Look, Bob,’ she said, watching as the thick eyebrows that had just about settled down again both rose in response. ‘Why don’t you tell …’ She went for broke. ‘Either Inspector O’Brien and/or DS Watts that Dr Robyn Adams would like to see them.’

‘Now look here—’ said the man, finger up and wagging in her direction.

She’d had enough of his ‘run along, dear’ bullshit and needed to front it out. ‘No. You look. I’m well within my rights to ask to see them; I’m more than versed in police procedure. So why don’t you go back there and talk to them again … please.’ She added the last word to be nice, but she was fast running out of patience. Throwing her weight around didn’t come naturally to Robyn, especially at the moment, but the situation demanded it.

The sergeant opened his mouth and looked like he was going to say something else, but then straightened out the rest of his fingers and flapped his hand. It just wasn’t worth the hassle of causing a scene; there were people above his pay grade who should be handling this. Vanishing again behind the scenes, Sergeant Bob returned a few minutes later with a woman in her early to mid-forties wearing a trouser suit not dissimilar to Robyn’s, but with a navy blouse instead of a cream one. Her nut-brown hair had been layered to give it volume, and fell almost across one eye in a way that would have driven Robyn crackers if it had belonged to her. The woman’s face was pretty, features delicate, but she was giving Tracy’s stern look a run for its money. If Robyn was feeling pissed off, then this woman’s face embodied it.

‘Thanks Bob,’ she told the uniformed man, who took up his place again leaning on the desk. Then she motioned for Robyn to step to the far side, away from the people in the waiting area. ‘Dr Adams?’ she asked, making sure she used the full title that had been passed along with the sergeant.

‘Please, call me Robyn,’ she said with a weak smile. Now she’d got past Bob, who had definitely needed a firmer hand, she was trying to be tactful. After all, she wanted information from these people and was so far off her own patch it was ridiculous. Off her patch and vulnerable.

‘I’m Inspector O’Brien, SIO on the Simon Carter case. That means—’

‘Senior Investigating Officer, yes I know,’ said Robyn, without thinking. But, in her defence, it had been the second time someone had tried to explain these terms to her today; even if she didn’t work with the police herself, they were fairly common weren’t they, from the amount of cop shows on TV?

O’Brien nodded, perhaps thinking this was the case rather than Robyn having first-hand experience. ‘All I can really disclose at this time is that we’re following up every lead we can.’ It was the standard line she’d probably been feeding to the press since this whole thing began. ‘So, unless there’s—’

‘I-I was just wondering if forensics had turned anything up,’ said Robyn.

‘Forensics …’ The inspector frowned, definitely thinking now that this woman fitted into the category of ‘watched too many episodes of Luther’ or simply fancied herself as an armchair detective, like the guy Bob had sent off with a flea in his ear. But then the frown turned to one of puzzlement, like she was trying to work something out. ‘Dr Adams … Where do I know that name from?’

Robyn was about to answer, when a figure appeared from behind the DI. This man was a good ten years younger than O’Brien, with hair that was shaved at the sides and swept over the top of his head so that it resembled one of those waves out there on the ocean. He was smartly dressed, his suit cut well and his tie pulled so tight it looked like it was threatening to cut off his oxygen (like Simon, Robyn couldn’t help thinking … then shoved the comparison aside). ‘You should know it, guv,’ he said, causing the woman – his superior – to turn around. The inspector still looked puzzled. ‘The Spider, the Postcode Killer … Oedipus.’

The last one caused Robyn to wince, an involuntary action but the man couldn’t help spotting it. O’Brien turned back around, a look of slow, dawning realisation washing over her face. It appeared that her ‘exploits’ had not only reached cousin Vicky, but the local plod at Golden Sands. They didn’t know the half of it though, no matter how much they’d read or seen; none of them did. ‘Right,’ said the woman.

There was an awkward silence then, not dissimilar to the one that had passed between her and Vicky when she first arrived. In the end, Robyn broke it, saying: ‘I thought I’d come along and see if—’

‘And you’re the cousin of the victim’s wife, is that right?’ O’Brien asked, knowing full well that she was.

Robyn nodded. ‘That is true, but—’

‘With all due respect, Dr Adams …’ Still not Robyn. ‘We have enough on here trying to investigate this without relatives or any other do-gooders getting under our feet.’ It was the young man’s turn to frown now, staring at the back of O’Brien’s head as if something was crawling out of it. ‘Christ, the guy who found Mr Carter keeps coming in and offering to help as well. This is a police investigation. I don’t want it turning into some kind of bloody circus.’

‘I just want to help.’ A fresh pair of eyes … ‘I-I might be able to offer some—’

‘And I suppose it’s your relative who’s asked you to look into all this?’ O’Brien wasn’t budging an inch, that much was clear.

‘Guv, maybe we should—’ began the man behind her, and she gave him a withering glare.

‘Maybe you should return to your duties, DS Watts.’ So, he was the other detective assigned to the case, thought Robyn. Good to put a face to the name. ‘As for you, Dr Adams, I think the best thing you can do is go back and comfort your cousin. She’s been through a lot.’

O’Brien turned that withering gaze on Robyn, but she tried to hold it. A respect thing, if nothing else. In the end it was the DI who looked away first, but only because she was walking away, taking her DS with her, who looked over his shoulder apologetically at Robyn. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, definitely not to be welcomed with open arms – the same way Vicky had done – but not that kind of rudeness, either. Cav’s team had been wary at first, until she’d proven herself – and perhaps she thought that might earn her a shortcut here. Might buy her the chance to look over the case at least, and if it had been up to Watts that definitely would have happened. But O’Brien … No, she was a different kettle of fish altogether. Sure, the woman had a right to be worried because Robyn was related to the dead man’s wife, to the man himself – conflict of interest and all that – but she hadn’t even bothered to find out their connection. That she wasn’t … that she and Vicky hadn’t been close for years; that they hadn’t even seen each other since her mum’s … That Robyn could remain detached. Probably. Definitely.

But if it was a pissing contest she wanted, psychology 101, then Robyn seemingly had no choice. She took out her mobile and sighed again when she saw there was no signal, before drifting over to the payphone near the entrance.

Fifteen minutes after placing her call, and sitting down in the waiting area – putting some distance between herself and the guy with his head in his hands, who’d since begun moaning softly too; it was actually quite unsettling – DI O’Brien appeared again behind that desk. She pulled a face when she saw Robyn there, then pointed at her. If it had been a gun, the psychologist would have been filled with lead in no time. ‘You. Dr Adams.’ The rigid finger crooked then. ‘Follow me.’

Robyn got up and went to the desk, waiting for Sergeant Bob to let her through. O’Brien, however, didn’t wait – had already rounded the corner into the station proper by the time Robyn was allowed past the barrier. She caught the woman up, turning the corner as well and catching the door that was being held open for her after the DI had carded herself back in. At least they have some kind of security here, thought Robyn, not just old Bob and his desk, sitting there like a guard at a set of medieval gates.

The room she found herself in was small compared to the station back home, maybe a dozen desks or less – and only a few of those were occupied at present. O’Brien strode up to the closest, where DS Watts was sitting with his back to them, his jacket off and slung over his seat. She tapped him on the shoulder and he shifted around in the chair, which didn’t even look like it was a swivel one. Without looking at Robyn, O’Brien said, ‘DS Watts here will assist you with whatever you need to see … Within reason.’

Then she strode off again away from the desk, away from the pair of them as if washing her hands of the whole thing. Once she’d gone, the DS grinned up at Robyn. ‘Friends in high places, eh? That’ll put a few noses out of joint.’

Robyn flashed an awkward smile, reminding herself of the promise that she would spring for dinner and a pair of tickets the next time The Boss was over in this country; it seemed appropriate given they’d just shown O’Brien who was the real person in charge. ‘Friends of friends, I think. Really shouldn’t have come to that, though,’ she told him.

‘Aww, don’t mind Grace. She’s okay once you get to know her,’ said Watts. ‘Just doesn’t like being told what to do, being pushed around. Most of the time this is like her little private kingdom.’

Robyn nodded. ‘I can see that.’

The man rose, holding out his hand. ‘DS Watts. Ashley Watts … Ash.’

Robyn took the hand and shook it. ‘Pleased to meet you DS Watts, Ashley Watts, Ash.’

He gave her another grin. ‘Likewise.’

‘I’m Robyn, as I tried to tell your DI.’

She wasn’t sure whether he’d heard her or not; he was busy gaping at her like he had done with the back of O’Brien’s head. Then suddenly he said, ‘You’re a bit of a legend around here.’ Watts looked about him, where nobody else was taking any notice whatsoever. ‘I mean … that is, as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Well, that’s very …’ She looked down at her hand, which Watts was still holding even though he’d stopped shaking it. He followed her gaze and let go of it like it was a live electrical cable with a bare end.

‘Those cases, I mean … God, where do you start?’

‘Where indeed,’ replied Robyn, hoping he wouldn’t.

‘The guy with the foetuses, you know?’

Robyn thought about correcting him, telling him there had actually been no foetuses involved in ‘The Baby’ case, but remained quiet. Up to now, Watts was the only ally she had in this province. So she nodded once more and said, ‘Uh-huh.’

‘I’d love to work on something high-profile like that. It would …’ Watts stopped, aware that he was going on a bit. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just—’

‘Excited?’ she ventured.

His cheeks flushed red, though he didn’t say anything back. Instead he segued into: ‘But you’re not here for … You want to know what happened to your cousin’s husband, right?’

‘Yes,’ she confirmed, then added, ‘So anything you can give me – scene of crime reports, autopsy records, forensics – would be really helpful … Ash.’

He’d smiled a final time at that, then gone off to round up what he could about the case, promising to give her copies of anything that was relevant – though not before arranging for someone to get her a coffee while she waited.

When he returned, handing her what he’d gathered as she sat at his desk, Robyn had got up and thanked him, shaking his hand again. He made a deliberate effort this time not to hold on for too long, but had broken off the shake with, ‘Maybe … well, feel free to give me a call or drop me an email or whatever if you need anything else, Dr Adams … Robyn.’ Then he handed her his card.

She held it up as she said, ‘I’m sure I’ll be in touch.’

Leaving with the files and case notes, relieved to note the moaning man had disappeared from the waiting room, she’d almost opened them up on the way to the car; Robyn had never been the most patient of people. Instead, she looked around her, did a quick check of the back seat, got in, then started reading inside. Eyes scanning the information, she took in how Jeremy the ‘do-gooder’ had found Simon – buried on the beach – while he was searching for treasure with his metal detector. How SOCOs had carefully dug him up to take him away, as if he was some kind of artefact from centuries ago that had been preserved. How the sand, water from the rain and the tide, had all obliterated any evidence of real value.

Then the pictures of his wounds, indentations at the neck showing that it had been strangulation, rather than a garrotte or anything else, used to end his life. That took more effort than people realised, a powerful grip – especially given Simon’s physical fitness and build. She scanned more and more of the pages and pictures, losing track of time cocooned in her car, and when Robyn finally sat up, sat back again with her head against the rest, she caught a glimpse of herself in the rear-view mirror. Another reflection.

It was then that she realised she was crying. Twin tears tracking down her cheeks, which she brushed away, just as Vicky had done, with the backs of her sleeves. Vicky … poor, poor Vicky. And Mia. Jesus. Having to grow up like those kids who’d had their fathers snatched away – literally – by Sykes.

Exciting? Hardly.

There was a sudden bang on the top of her car that made her start. Robyn twisted around, trying to see who it was … only for the seagull that had landed on there to hop onto the bonnet from the roof. It glared at her through the windscreen, reminding her of the way Tracy, Sergeant Bob and O’Brien had regarded her.

Catching her breath, she took out a couple of her pills and washed them down with the water from the glove compartment, then started the engine and pulled away, forcing the seagull to take off. By the time she arrived back, Tracy had left for the day, having helped Vicky with the evening’s dinner: pasta and sauce, something simple. Vicky had asked Robyn if she wanted any, shoving the food around on her own plate like she was trying to create abstract art, but she’d said no – didn’t have the stomach for it at the moment. Would head up and get straightened out if that was all right, unpacked or whatever. Mia had been getting up from the table to go to her, but Vicky made her stay where she was and finish.

Once up there, however, Robyn had totally ignored the case of clothes, instead sitting down with those files again on the bed. Though not before making sure the bolt was on … It felt almost like she was locking herself away in one of the cells at Gateside.

She was aware that time had passed again, Vicky coming up and knocking on the door to see if she was all right a couple of times – which again made her jump – then informing her eventually she was putting Mia to bed, and asking if she wanted to say goodnight. Robyn had slipped out then, closing the door quickly behind her, to give Mia a kiss and a hug, then returned to her room saying she’d be down shortly.

That had been … she glanced at her watch as she stood looking at the bed … bloody hell, two hours or more ago! The action of looking broke the spell, and she gathered up all the case files again, placing them on the top of the wardrobe.

It was time to head down, face Vicky. Talk to her. But before that, she needed to wipe away the tears that had come again.

Tears she’d had trouble getting under control this time.

Chapter 5

Finally, the tears had stopped.

Vicky sat in the living room on the sofa, staring at the TV but not really watching it. She’d switched over from the news a while ago to some gardening programme, but while she hadn’t been concentrating that had morphed into an old black and white movie about a guy who was trying to kill some woman’s husband at her behest. That was the last thing she wanted to watch or think about. Husband killing.

‘And when did you last see your husband, Mrs Carter? Can you account for your whereabouts in the couple of days after that?’

Vicky switched over again, only to find an American sitcom with a laughter track that sounded so fake it hurt, the image pixilating like a son of a bitch and making the actors look like Transformers. She pressed another button, which gave her a wildlife documentary. That would do, and she zoned out again, having another drink of the wine she was clutching.

No more tears. Not now … Maybe they’d dried up completely? But then she’d thought that before Robyn arrived, and yet there they’d been again, her blubbing and holding on for dear life. Whatever must she have thought? Getting all worked up like that, when Robyn was so used to dealing with death.

Getting all worked up because it was Simon. Because Simon is gone, she reminded herself and felt that familiar pricking at the corners of her eyes. Because she’d never see him again, would she?

When was the last time she’d seen him? On a slab in the morgue, his skin blue-white, those marks around his neck. And before that, a flying visit, barely enough time to say hello and goodbye he was so busy – bringing in money to make sure they were all right (she couldn’t help wondering how they would cope now … don’t think about that).

But the last time, the real last time she’d seen him, when they’d spent time together … That Saturday night, when Mia was at a sleepover with some of her mates. Vicky had been drinking that night as well; they both had. An evening of drink and chat and watching that live band massacre Bon Jovi numbers at the pub that had once been called The Barnacle. Then, rolling home after last orders, practically falling in through the door. Kissing in the hallway, then upstairs, knowing they had the place to themselves and could be as loud as they liked. Pulling each other’s clothes off and tumbling into bed, acting like they had when they first met, when they were so young and everything had been brand new.

Simon was right – it had done them good. After months of barely even bothering, and, when they did, it being over in minutes; hardly even worth getting worked up. Yes, there was Mia to consider, but even so … Vicky was beginning to think he’d gone off her. When was the last time they’d done that, just let themselves go? It wouldn’t happen again now. Would never happen again …

Because he was dead. The man she loved, the man she’d married – who worked so hard for them – was gone. Murdered and buried, covered up like some dirty secret. And as she thought back to the day she was told, those police officers at the door delivering the message, she realised she’d drained the wine in her glass and reached out for the bottle that was already well over half empty. The one she’d started in on after she’d finally got Mia to bed, after telling her again and again to just go to sleep and stop asking questions about what was wrong. After looking in her daughter’s eyes and understanding that she knew something pretty serious had happened.

‘She doesn’t know yet?’

‘I wasn’t sure what to say to her.’

‘What’s … what’s the matter, Mum?’

‘Nothing. Nothing sweetheart.’

After days of trying to keep the truth from her, protecting her the best way she knew how. Of lying about why Tracy was there, why she was answering the door and fielding phone calls … And shouldn’t she have answered some of those? Vicky had friends … kind of. The school mums, Jay’s mother especially. If anyone knew how she felt then it was that woman, just in a different way. But she hadn’t felt like talking to anyone. Just wanted her own mum back; fucking cancer! Her mum and dad. Needed her family. Needed—

Robyn. The sister she’d never had. The one person she’d always been able to turn to, rely on … until she couldn’t. Until that connection had been severed somehow, two people drifting apart who had nothing in common anymore. But still family.

That was when she’d dug out the numbers and made the call, not even knowing if it was still current or not. Getting the answerphone on the landline, finally getting her on her mobile. Realising something was ‘off’ about Robyn herself. Like she was also upset; like she’d caught her at a bad moment or something.