Absent Light (12 page)

She rolled over, pulled the duvet up around her head, trying to still the chatter of once-forgotten voices, failing. Nothing else for it, she thought, throwing back the duvet and switching on the lamp.

She kept the box on top of the wardrobe. Squirrelling it back to bed, she took off the lid and braced herself for the contents. The newspaper cuttings were already starting to weather with age. She hadn't filed them in any particular order so she simply took the first off the top.

THE BIRMINGHAM POST

WEST MIDLANDS POLICE UNDER ATTACK

Warren Jacks, a police informer for West Midlands Police, has been identified as the killer of fifteen-year-old Rose Buchanan by scenes of crime officer, Helen Powers.
Jacks, 30, who has links with the notorious Park Lane Boys, is thought to have turned undercover informer eighteen months ago. Although being documented as a danger to young girls – a previous charge of indecent assault against a minor was dropped – he was allowed to escape justice as a means to infiltrate the Park Lane Boys as part of an undercover operation.
Miss Powers, the daughter of Jack Powers, the wealthy print industrialist, took the unusual step of disclosing the information to the Press because she feared that there might be a form of cover-up. “While this is an obvious embarrassment for the police, it is an absolute tragedy for the Buchanan family,” she said. When asked how she thought such an event had come about, Miss Powers stated that a demand for results coupled with a lack of leadership led officers to bend the law.
At the time of going to press, nobody was available for comment from West Midlands Police.

Helen gave a heavy sigh. After wading through a number of cuttings from local newspapers with titles like:
MOTHER WARNED POLICE THAT DAUGHTER WAS AT RISK
, she moved on to the nationals.

DAILY MAIL

SCENES OF CRIME OFFICER RESIGNS
OVER INFORMER SCANDAL

Helen Powers, the controversial scenes of crime officer who exposed the recruitment of notorious gangland figure, Warren Jacks, by West Midlands Police, has resigned her post.
No police officers will be prosecuted over the case of the gangster who murdered his pregnant teenage girlfriend, Rose Buchanan, while he was an informant. The CPS has stated that there was insufficient evidence to support a prosecution of the officer handling Jacks. However, The Police Complaints Commission is still considering disciplinary proceedings.
A spokesperson for West Midlands stated that every informant was assessed for potential risk and reliability, and that Jacks was directly responsible for supplying high grade information prior to his arrest. Asked about Powers's role, the spokesperson maintained that Powers was right to raise concerns if she had them but, “while Miss Powers claims to have acted from the highest of motives, the manner in which she disclosed the information was unprofessional and fell well below the standards expected of a scenes of crime officer.”
No decision has been taken about whether or not to prosecute Miss Powers under the Official Secrets Act. Miss Powers was unavailable for comment.

Helen settled back on the pillows, wondering how or if she'd ever make her peace with the past. The cuttings only told part of the story, the bit she'd wanted to reveal. The truth was she'd messed up a long time before that. It wasn't a deliberate act. She didn't set out to do it. To her eternal shame, she didn't really consider it that carefully. It was something that happened because she wanted to trust the man she loved. She allowed herself to be persuaded because she was as ambitious for him as he was for himself, because she, too, was a rising star, hungry for success. When Adam Roscoe talked of the greater good, which he did often, she chose to believe him.

Adam sailed as close to the wind as anyone she'd ever known, but he got results. He was a maverick. She wasn't entirely certain how he managed to flourish – the police were more hidebound than ever by procedure. To stand up to the scrutiny of the court, let alone secure a conviction, everything had to be carried out to the letter. Speak to any police officer and they could all tell you tales of devious defence lawyers intent on disembowelling every piece of evidence, but somehow Adam seemed to circumvent it all. He'd taken a law degree while a serving officer, which he reckoned put him one step ahead. Either he was a genius or…

He used to talk a lot about the ends justifying the means. She thought it possessed the fine logic of a mathematical equation. Numbers were just that: figures. They were movable, expendable, but when you transposed the idea, put a face to the
x
or the
y
, when you flesh out that face with a family, a history, a person with hopes and dreams, then you have a problem. She knew that the previous indecent assault charge against Jacks should never have been dropped. She knew that she should have gone to her superior, spoken out. She knew that by saying nothing she was, in essence, guilty of withholding information. It didn't matter that the kid Jacks assaulted was on the wrong side of the tracks, had a history of care, and was destined for a sad life, she thought, remembering snatches of a previous conversation.

“I'm going to get Tracey on her own, talk to her nice and quiet,” Adam said.

They were in bed. The sheets were tangled; they were always tangled.

Helen crooked herself up on one elbow, looked into his liquid brown eyes, smiled with disbelief. “What?”

“Get the kid to drop the allegations, forget pressing charges.”

She snatched the sheets up to her chin in a hopelessly virginal gesture and sat up. “You can't do that. The girl's virtually been raped. We've got the evidence.”

“
You've
got the evidence.”

Christ, what was he asking her to do? The samples were sitting in the refrigerator at work, waiting to go off to the lab. She still had her statement to make, the report to write.

“Adam, you know as well as I that this bloke, Jacks, will do it again. Guys like him can't help themselves. It's in their blood. In their psyche. This was a really serious assault on a minor. The guy bears all the hallmarks of a rapist, for God's sake. The next time he offends, his victim might not be so lucky. He might even kill someone,” she said desperately. “You've got to nail him.”

“You're overreacting.”

She could have hit him. She opened her mouth to protest loudly when another, more worrying, thought sped through her mind. “The girl was seen by a forensic examiner. You're not telling me you're going to get him to forget what he saw?”

“Don't be daft,” Adam said in a way that was not entirely convincing.

According to the seriousness of the offence and volume of work, scenes of crime officers were either sent out singly on a job, or as part of a team. It was entirely normal for her to attend an indecent assault alone, but, the way Adam was talking, she began to worry that she'd been especially chosen, over and above anyone else. Did that mean that Barnaby Finch was in the know, she quaked inside? Adam was a relentless networker.

“Sweetheart,” Adam said, turning towards her, sliding his body in between the sheet and her skin. “It would be doing her a favour.”

“I don't understand,” Helen said, feeling the warmth and weight of his body against her own.

“She's got a long sexual history,” he said, sliding the sheet down to expose her breasts.

“How do you know?” Her voice was hot with indignation.

“I'm the detective, remember?”

“Adam, the girl's fifteen years of age.”

“Which means the bastard lawyers would have a field day with her in court.”

“Yes, but…”

He ran one finger along her lips, put it in her mouth. “She's not a credible witness. It's far kinder to protect her from the humiliation.”

She bit his finger, making him withdraw. “But if this bloke gets away with it, he'll do it again.”

“He'll be monitored,” Adam said, sliding his hand between her legs.

“You can't monitor someone like that. He's not a little kid whose going to say sorry and behave himself.”

“I'll make sure of it.”

“How?” she snapped.

Adam gave a tense sigh. “When are you going to wake up and smell the coffee?”

She glared at him. Once before, admittedly in the privacy of her flat, he'd made out that she was young and inexperienced – at least when it came to policing.

“Jacks is an informant,” Adam said. “Any court case would put him and others at risk.”

“But that's completely immoral.”

“So is this,” he said, putting a finger inside her.

She braced. “Adam, I'm serious.”

“So am I,” he said, his voice hardening.

She stared at him. Was he acting alone, or were others involved? Is this what Stratton would term as corrupt? Was that why she'd had that uneasy feeling about Adam before? The truth was she didn't know. Like Adam said, she didn't have the experience. To her innocent ears, it all sounded like the kind of stuff that happened in films. No, this was crazy, she thought. Corruption had been seen off years before, care of a number of internal investigations. Adam wasn't bent. Couldn't be. He was just well-motivated, ambitious, and a bit frustrated by the difficulties of obtaining the kind of evidence needed nowadays to secure a conviction.

Adam was talking again. “Look, in an ideal world I'd agree with you, but sometimes you have to bend the rules a little. You know how much the system's weighted in favour of the criminal.”

“I agree, but…”

“And I'm being honest with you about the girl. Do you want to see her shredded in court? She's already had a pretty crappy start in life. Think what it would do to her, Helen.”

She gave him a wary look. He certainly had a point. “You really believe you can control him?”

“Absolutely.”

“But I still don't see how you're going to get round it. What about the WPC who spoke to Tracey?” she said, feeling her body operate quite separately to her brain.

“I can square it,” Adam murmured. Helen imagined his smooth talking. He'd talk about the
proper management of the issues
even though he didn't believe in them. At the back of her mind, she also wondered whether he'd tell the WPC that, if she wanted to progress, it was as well to keep in with him.

“But…”

“I can do anything,” he whispered.

And she believed him because she needed to. She liked to think she knew him so much more completely than his wife. The thrill was that, while she battled with her conscience, her body snaked with desire. So she stifled the voice in her head about justice, about the possible prevention of a far greater crime. Had she spoken out, Rose Buchanan would still be alive. Exposing the later act fell well short of redemption.

And that's why guilt was her bedfellow. It stole the smile from her face, took the edge from every simple pleasure. It followed her around like a star-struck lover, a constant living, breathing, slippery presence.

Someone once told her that certain personalities were more susceptible to feelings of blame: the perfectionists, the high-achievers, and the ones who expected too much from themselves and of others. She wasn't one of them. Her guilt was well deserved. There was nothing she could do to change what she'd done, or make things better.

Nothing at all.

Not ever.

CHAPTER EIGHT

S
UNDAY FINISHED
. M
ONDAY BEGAN
.

As usual she drove down to the swimming baths at Moseley, an old-fashioned Edwardian structure with changing cubicles surrounding the pool. She swam the equivalent of a mile, half breast-stroke, half crawl. It wasn't simply a means of keeping fit but a way of coping. Afterwards she got out, showered, grabbed some breakfast and went to work.

She spent the first ten minutes reading through a job application from someone with a photographic degree from Bournville. In her experience, graduates were great at photographing saucepans but take them to a wedding and they didn't have a clue. She asked Jewel to send a polite letter of rejection. The next hour was spent organising advertising in a number of wedding magazines, and obtaining the necessary permits for some planned location shots. Then she decided to check camera equipment. At mid-day, she nipped down to Five Ways for a sandwich. An hour later and drinking her fourth cup of coffee, she had an informal chat with a young couple getting married later in the year. Weddings always presented something of a challenge. It wasn't easy trying to capture the day when half the guests were intent on getting to the bar. For this reason, she found it critical to get the brief as clear as possible in her own mind. Under her direction, the couple decided to eitch the classic static poses and opt for a more exciting, documentary approach.

“Are the contacts back for Miss Stephens?” Jewel asked as Helen sauntered back into reception.

“Er…yes.”

“Shall I give her a call?”

“Er…no.”

Jewel threw her a questioning look. Of mixed race, she was a pretty girl with coffee-coloured skin, dark eyes, and neat rosebud mouth.

Helen cleared her throat. “Miss Stephens has done a runner.”

Jewel arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“She wasn't who she said she was,” Helen said, feeling a bit of a chump.

“Really?” Jewel said, eyes popping now.

“It's a little complicated,” Helen said with massive understatement.

“How complicated?”

“Enough for the police to be involved.”

“The police?” Jewel's mouth dropped open. “Just because she's not going to pay?”

“Like I said,” Helen flustered, “it's not as simple as that. There's nothing for you to worry about,” she added with a brisk smile. “I'm handling the situation.”

“Right,” Jewel said, eyes glinting with disbelief.

“So if you see any coppers hanging around, just point them in my direction. Any messages?” Helen asked, firmly changing the subject.

“No, it's pretty dead.”

The next hour dragged by. She phoned her parents and had an incomprehensible conversation with her mother whose voice was thick with gin. Helen promised to call back later though she didn't bother to add
when you've sobered up
. She felt edgy and unsettled. And she knew why. Telling Jewel that she was popping out, she took her coat, and headed for her car. Even though nothing else had happened, she didn't feel inclined to park it anywhere other than round the front of the building.

All the way to the Jewellery Quarter, she wondered how Robyn Roscoe would react. It was hard to tell because Adam so seldom mentioned her. Either she'd be furious and have her thrown out of the building, Helen suspected, or she'd be one of those professional types who wouldn't care for a scene, and would, at least, be civil enough to give her an audience. The only thing she could bank on was Robyn Roscoe's status as an ex-wife. In Helen's experience, ex-wives were only too ready to dish the dirt. If Adam had some connection, direct or otherwise, to the recent attacks, it might be that Robyn would throw some light on it, even inadvertently. It was pretty tenuous, Helen realised. In essence, she'd been Adam's mistress; Robyn might as easily direct her bile at her. Still, it seemed worth a crack. Helen's real problem was that, however much she wanted to know the truth, with Adam she was always scared of finding it.

Without expression, the black girl opened the door and offered to take her coat. “Mrs Roscoe asked me to show you through to her office. She shouldn't be long. Had to pop out to collect her son from school because of a mix-up with the nanny. May I offer you tea or coffee?”

Helen thought she'd misheard. “Her son?”

“Michael,” the black girl smiled.

Helen felt as though she'd been slapped across the face. But they don't have any children. Adam said so. Swiftly making mental calculations, she realised that the child was very young – it was only three o' clock and most schools didn't break up until later. That explained it, she heaved an inner sigh, the child was probably the result of a different relationship. “Coffee would be lovely,” she smiled, collecting her wits.

“Milk, sugar?”

“Black's fine.”

Helen was shown into a light, modern and airy office, in which there were a number of display cases housing a collection of ancient-looking books. They looked very old, very rare and incredibly valuable; intimidatingly so. Helen peered at them with the same fascination a bomb-disposal expert might view a highly sophisticated incendiary device. Overawed, she quickly turned her attention to the window and looked outside onto a fine view of St Paul's church. Minutes passed. She picked up and flicked through a trade magazine. It mostly provided information about stolen art and antiques, and carried a number of articles on aspects of art theft and the importance of documenting and photographing property to best protect it. Still no sign of Robyn Roscoe. Looking back out of the window, Helen wondered how long she'd have to wait, and whether it was deliberate.

Eventually the black girl entered and placed a cup of coffee on the desk. Helen gave a short smile of thanks and leant across to pick it up, her eyes skimming over the computer, the phone, the closed leather-bound diary, the collection of art books, the silver-framed photograph…

Her eyes widened. The coffee cup rattled in the saucer. Then the door swung open.

“Miss Powers, do take a seat.”

It wasn't an invitation. It was an order.

Helen stepped aside and watched the cool-looking blonde cut a swathe from one side of the room to the other. Helen smelt the heavy scent of exotic and expensive perfume. She noted the tall and athletic build, the shoulder-length blonde hair, the lightly tanned complexion from which glinted a pair of ice-blue eyes. The woman's muscular physique was clothed in an expensive-looking charcoal-grey suit, which she wore over a fuchsia-coloured silk shirt. Her feet were shod in pale grey suede stilettos. She was full-breasted and had narrow hips. And yes, there was a distinct American accent. As Robyn Roscoe perched her rear on the edge of the desk, she appeared to be viewing Helen with the same intensity. The only difference was that she wore a victorious smile.

“You're not what I expected,” Robyn Roscoe said. The smile remained.

Helen sat down, trying to think. “Expect you wonder why I'm here.”

“It had occurred to me, but you wouldn't be the first.”

Helen's gaze sharpened.

Soft laughter trickled from Robyn Roscoe's lips. “You don't really think you're the only one to fall in love with my husband.”

“I…”

“Men can be so remiss,” Robyn cut in, her voice assuming an all girls together tone. “Adam in particular. Didn't you used to find that?” she said, frowning slightly, looking at Helen as though she expected a detailed reply. “I mean I know it's not easy when you're a cop. The hours are a killer quite apart from the extra-marital activities. He could be
so
naughty,” she said, eyes gleaming. “I expect he clean forgot to tell you about our special relationship.”

Pinpricks of alarm began to spread through the upper part of Helen's body. The room seemed to telescope. She thought she was going to be sick.

“We had a modern marriage. Sorry, I'm being dreadfully British,” Robyn Roscoe smirked, putting a manicured hand to her face. “You guys never say what you really mean, always have to go all round the houses. Used to puzzle the hell out of me. I'm from Texas, see, and we always tell it the way it is. Basically, he fucked other women. I fucked other men. Mostly,” she added.

Helen clamped her teeth together to prevent her jaw from dropping open.

“You see it's about trust, sweetie,” Robyn Roscoe continued, her voice taking on a menacing intonation. “Not that you'd know a great deal about that.”

So that was the nub of it, Helen thought, rallying. Robyn hadn't cared for her husband's infidelity brought kicking and screaming out into the open. She forced a smile. “Oh very good,” she said. “I've got to hand it to you. What better way to explain away a cheating husband than profess to be a willing party? It's the classic defence mechanism.”

“That's crap, and you know it.”

“Shame Adam isn't here,” Helen countered, “then we could ask him for his expert opinion.”

Robyn leant forward. The blue eyes narrowed. Her expression implied that the gloves were coming off. “You fucked things up for us.”

Helen stared back at her. “There was no
us
, according to him.”

Robyn gave a mocking smile. “Believe what you like.”

Oh, I will, Helen thought, but this wasn't achieving anything. They could go on mud-slinging for the rest of the afternoon. “Why get me here?”

Another glittering smile. “I seem to remember you made the appointment.”

“You didn't have to see me.”

“I was curious.”

“You thought you'd humiliate me,” Helen said, hoping she'd agree.

“Maybe.”

“You wanted pay-back.”

“Some,” Robyn said, the smile evaporating.

“A little intimidation.”

Robyn Roscoe folded her arms. “Just what the hell are you talking about?”

Helen glared at her. Was she bluffing, or was she really in the dark? “In the space of a week, I've been attacked twice.”

“Your point?”

“My point is that both you and Adam have a motive.”

The blue eyes crinkled in amusement. “You clearly have a high opinion of yourself, lady. I've moved on. He's moved on. Something you obviously have a problem with.”

“I only have a bloody problem when I'm threatened,” Helen snarled.

“Then I suggest you convey that to the cops.”

Helen opened her mouth and changed her mind. Robyn was quick to pick up on it. “Oh, of course, I see your difficulty, telling tales, and all.”

“Grow up,” Helen sniped. “Of course I reported it.”

“Then why are you here?” Robyn laughed coldly.

Helen stood up.

“
Sorry
you thought it was the real deal,” Robyn said, unable to resist having the last word, “but I'm more sorry you had to drop Adam in the shit.” The blue eyes were steely.

“He did that all on his own,” Helen said.

“It could have been smoothed over.”

“By talking to the right people, buying them off?” Helen flared.

The iron look remained. “A bit of advice, lady. Move on. Get yourself a life.”

“Try telling that to Rose Buchanan's mother, Mrs Roscoe.”

She was still shaking by the time she got back to the car. Either Robyn Roscoe was telling the truth, or she was phenomenally clever. She wished now that she'd quizzed her more about Adam's decision to go to Iraq, how long he intended to be there, when he was coming back, where he was living in the U.K. Something that wasn't so easily squared was the evidence she'd seen with her own eyes. The photograph on the desk portrayed an older, smiling Adam. The boy, whose hand Adam held, looked to be about three years of age, the daughter seven or eight, and the image of her father. Every picture tells a story, Helen thought sadly. Maybe the Roscoes were, in spite of the rumours, still together. And, she concluded, if Adam was that happy, there was no need to come after her. Not now.

She drove away, not really thinking where she was going. She'd toughed it out in front of Robyn Roscoe, but Helen's sense of disappointment was as strong as a physical pain in her chest. Had it really been a game to him, she wondered, a bit of fun, something on the side to spice up a marriage? If so, she didn't even have the consolation of being able to look back on what she believed to be great times. They were all lies. His lies.

It was four miles before she realised where she was. St Laurence's Church lay in Northfield, a leafy enclave of well-kept houses, some of them Thirties-style, with cared for gardens. Coming to her senses, Helen was careful not to miss the narrow turning to the church and throw herself back into the one-way system. She parked the car near one of the gates and climbed out into a neat and ancient-looking street. The sun was lying like a bloodshot eye, seeping a watery light onto a row of small houses and trees. A car alarm blasted a raucous cry from a distance, but the village itself looked sleepy and kind and benevolent.

Letting herself into the graveyard, hearing the creak of iron and wood, she found herself watching for others. A young woman was tending a grave nearby. Lost in thought, a middle-aged couple walked towards Helen. They nodded absently, falling into single file as they passed, eyes dimmed with memory. She offered a brief smile of thanks and continued to walk along a formal pathway, peering at epitaphs, realising how much the graveyard was like a kaleidoscope, each death and each new tombstone subtly changing the landscape. There were a couple of steel bins piled high with dead flowers, milk cartons and empty bottles of pop. As she followed the circular path round the church, a chill and unexpected breeze blew underneath her coat, making it flap around her thighs. She could see the entrance and the pub opposite, aptly named The Great Stone. It seemed strange that, just a street away from this quiet, tended avenue, tatty apartments chucked up in the Seventies, by the looks of them, with their peeling paint and dirty net curtains, lurked among the dense roar of city traffic.