Authors: Janice Frost
She was also wondering why he had not bothered to restrain her. Was he so arrogant that he thought she wasn’t capable of retaliation? She wasn’t one of his fourteen-year-old girls. Still, there was a need for caution. From her bedroom encounters with Taylor, she was well aware of his physical prowess. Being proficient in martial arts did not necessarily mean that she had the advantage over any opponent. For all she knew, Taylor might be just as capable as she of delivering a handy karate chop.
Looking at him pacing in her peripheral vision, Ava sensed Taylor knew he had made a mistake. He should have played it cool, she thought. If he had reacted with astonishment to her accusing him of tampering with Amy’s fire, he could have accused her of being ridiculous, challenged her to prove it (Could she? In these days of CSI, even trained police officers might be forgiven for thinking that the forensics people worked miracles) — and just left in disgust; instead he had a situation to deal with which, whatever way you looked at it, could only bring him more problems.
Taylor kicked over the chair nearest to him in a sudden burst of anger. Ava flinched, seeing the leg break with the force of his rage; she supposed she should be grateful he hadn’t chosen to vent his anger on her face again.
The longer he spent trying to figure out what to do, the more time she had to work out how to act, but the ideas just weren’t coming. Passivity wasn’t an option here, Ava decided suddenly. Besides, it wasn’t in her nature.
Then, before she even knew she had a plan, she was launching herself out of the chair, grabbing hold of the splintered leg of the broken chair and lunging at Taylor like a demented cavewoman with a sawn off club.
His arrogance was her salvation; clearly he saw himself as so superior to any woman that he was in no danger. Ava’s crude weapon was already crashing down on Taylor’s shoulder before he had a chance to shield himself from the blow.
Ava thanked her stars for the hours she’d spent shifting weights in the gym and keeping her body in peak condition. The force of her blow knocked Taylor off his feet. She moved swiftly to deliver another hit, but he grabbed her leg and brought her to the floor beside him.
For a few moments they grappled with one another, with Taylor trying to manoeuvre Ava into a position where he could use his weight to pin her to the floor, but Ava was quick as well as strong, and she wriggled free of him.
Springing to her feet, she concentrated all her energy into delivering a swift kick to the professor’s groin area. Pain seared through her foot at the impact but it was gratifying to see Taylor’s face turn green and his hands clutch his precious manhood as he yelped in pain.
There wasn’t a second to lose. Taylor wouldn’t be disabled for long. Ava shot across the floor to retrieve the chair leg and raised it above her head ready to bring it down hard on Taylor’s skull, no longer caring how seriously she hurt him; this wasn’t self-defence; it was a fight for her life.
Her arm came down at the same time as Taylor roared like a man possessed and ran at her, knocking her off her feet and sending her sprawling headfirst into the sofa, the chair leg flying through the air, narrowly missing Taylor’s head as he ducked.
I’m done for
, Ava thought as her hands sank down between the scatter cushions on her sofa. Taylor knew it too; he was looming over her, fists balled, a murderous look on his face, lips curling into a cruel, triumphant smile.
* * *
Neal had never visited Ava Merry at her home before, so he didn’t know if he should take the private road leading to the cottages, or park his car at the end of the official road. In the end, he parked up and walked the couple of hundred yards to her place, wondering all the way why anyone would choose to live alone in such an isolated setting. He wasn’t a die-hard city dweller and he loved to be up in the Scottish hills away from it all, but he also liked a bit of civilisation right on his doorstep.
When he saw the red Porsche parked outside Ava’s cottage, Neal was unsure what to think. He recognised it immediately, of course, as Christopher Taylor’s — even if Taylor hadn’t had a personalised number plate he would have remembered the registration. Most police officers were into noting number plates and Neal had the advantage of an excellent memory.
His first thought was that Ava had been seeing Taylor, and for some reason had been trying to conceal this from him by spinning him a story about her investigating the professor. There was no doubt that she had been attracted to the man, but Neal had gained the impression that Taylor simultaneously repulsed her.
In the end, it was gut instinct, that elusive, indefinable impulse that led him to believe that something was wrong. Later, he would rationalise it as a kind of sixth sense arising from years of experience on the job.
The door was unlocked and he didn’t knock — another instinctive act that he could not rationalise later. What if he walked in on Ava and the professor entwined on the sofa in an impassioned embrace, both of them stark naked?
Throwing any such thoughts to the wind, he turned the handle and stepped inside with a police officer’s instinctive, cautionary stealth. Professor Taylor and his sergeant were indeed entwined upon the sofa but they were not engaged in any kind of amorous activity. Far from it.
Taylor lay sprawled across Ava, blood spurting from a wound in his neck, his hands clutching at a pair of scissors sunk deeply into his throat. As Neal stood, stunned for a moment at the sight, Ava heaved Taylor off of her. He landed on the floor with a dull thunk, staining the light beige rug crimson as he thrashed about in pain and panic.
“For fuck’s sake, sir,” Ava was yelling, “call a bloody ambulance before he bleeds to death!”
The damage to Ava’s face was superficial. Her nose had had to be re-set and would never be the same as it had been before Taylor’s fist knocked it out of joint, but the slight imperfection, the barely noticeable misalignment added character to what had been a too-perfect symmetry of features, or so the nurse was assuring her patient when Neal came to visit. He hadn’t pegged Ava as vain, but then beautiful young people have no need for vanity, he considered, watching Ava turning the hand-held mirror this way and that, the better to assess for herself what Taylor had spoiled.
“I’ll do,” she declared at last. “Small price to pay for putting that bastard behind bars.”
Neal cringed inwardly, wondering how Ava might have felt if the three hour operation to save Taylor’s life had gone differently. It was one thing to injure a suspect in the course of doing one’s duty, but quite another to cause lasting damage or worse still, loss of life. You had to be able to live with the consequences, and coping with the knowledge that you had killed was not something he would wish on Ava — having lived with it himself.
Fortunately, Taylor’s life had been saved by the surgeon’s skill and the generosity of the anonymous person who had donated his or her rare blood for the good of mankind.
Neal placed his bouquet of flowers on the table beside Ava’s bed, with a guilty glance at the departing nurse. Was it still permissible to bring flowers into a hospital ward in these days of superbugs? Ava was in a room of her own, so maybe it didn’t matter so much.
“Thanks, sir,” she said. “Pull up a chair.”
Neal, who had been about to perch absent-mindedly on the edge of the bed, fetched a chair from across the room and sat down.
“So. How are you feeling?” he asked, suddenly awkward.
“I’m fine. They’re discharging me tomorrow, I think. Thank God, the food here’s abysmal. Face is on the mend and the cracked ribs are less painful. Oh, and they x-rayed my foot. I’m going to need a small op. to put that right but I’ll need to get in line for that.”
Neal nodded. “I meant, how do you
feel
?” he asked again. Ava squirmed back against the pillows.
“To tell you the truth, I feel great,” she admitted. “I know I should be feeling bad about injuring — nearly killing — another person, but I don’t. I’m just glad to be alive, because, I tell you, that man intended to kill me.”
“Good.” Neal said. He wondered if Ava would always feel this way, or if she would wake up in a cold sweat one night, horrified at what she was capable of. Taylor is alive, he reminded himself. It’s not the same.
“I suppose I’m in for a bollocking?” Ava asked, far too cheerfully. Really, she was in such good spirits after her ordeal, Neal couldn’t help wondering whether she was going to crash down hard sometime soon. He would make sure she saw the police counsellor, whatever her protestations might be.
“No, actually,” he said. “You’ve been instrumental in apprehending a persistent and dangerous sex offender. I contacted Rohina — Roxy — yesterday and she was so shocked that Taylor had tried to kill you that she said she would reconsider her decision not to come forward and testify against him. I suspect, as did you, that her story will open the floodgates.”
Ava started to grin, but he carried on. “However. You were way out of line inviting Taylor to your home like that and putting yourself in danger. That’s not how a good police officer operates, and you’re damn lucky not to be finding yourself back in uniform. You have me to thank for that. I see your potential, Ava, and I want to carry on working with you, but I need to know that this kind of thing isn’t going to happen again. I won’t tolerate a lone wolf . . .”
“But I got results, sir.”
“Don’t say another word, Sergeant,” Neal said, an edge to his voice. Her reply had not pleased him, but a conversation about her attitude could wait until she came down from whatever high she was riding on — perceived success or painkillers — best leave her to reflect awhile and see if she saw things differently then. Sooner or later they would need to talk. He even suspected that Ava would seek him out.
“Forensics are all over Amy and Becci’s flat as we speak. They’ll find something to connect Taylor to that faulty fire. He wouldn’t have been stupid enough to leave a print, but you have to be pretty adept or downright lucky to walk away without leaving a trace that these guys can pick up nowadays.
Even if they come up with nothing, there’s enough to build a case around. With Roxy’s testimony and a little detective work it should be straightforward enough to prove that Amy was blackmailing him, which gives him motive. And your testimony, of course.”
Neal stood up, feeling conflicted. On the one hand, he wanted to congratulate his sergeant, tell Ava that she had done good work. On the other, she had acted out of line and they could have been looking at a wholly different outcome. How to play it? To his surprise, it was Ava who spoke first.
“I’m sorry,” she said so quietly Neal wasn’t sure if he’d misheard, “— for going it alone. I’m not some vigilante. It’s just . . . sex offenders like this are kind of personal to me.”
Neal stood perfectly still.
“Your experience with the flasher?”
“No,” Ava answered quickly, “I handled that. It’s not an uncommon experience for young women, you know.”
Neal nodded, admonished. She wasn’t going to say any more but that was fine with him. Her apology, however low-key, was enough for now.
Ava changed the subject. “Taylor killed Becci and Gary but we’re no further forward in finding Amy’s killer, are we, sir?”
“I have an idea about that,” Neal said. “That’s why I turned up on your doorstep last night. I wanted to talk it through with you because it’s a bit out of the box.” He sat down again, pulling his chair closer to the bed, conspiratorially, and told her how — and why — Amy’s death had come about.
* * *
The following day, Neal travelled to London alone. Ava had been discharged from hospital and was expected to be off work for a few days; then it would be light duties until she had the operation on her foot.
A pleasant young constable picked him up at King’s Cross and drove him to Wormwood scrubs where he had arranged a visit with Wade Bolan.
The same guard he had met on his previous visit with Ava showed Neal to the interview room, barely concealing his disappointment at not seeing Neal’s ‘charming young DS’ again.
Wade Bolan looked up as Neal entered the interview room. Their eyes met. Bolan’s seemed to be insolent and guarded at the same time, and for a brief second, Neal felt with utter conviction that his theory was right, though he might never be able to prove it.
“I want to talk to you about your daughter, Amy,” Neal began.
“Who’s Amy? My kid’s name was Emily. Emmie.”
“You killed Amy,” Neal said, suddenly impatient. To his credit, Bolan did not flinch. He cocked an eyebrow, a lazy, self-satisfied smile spreading across his face, crinkling the skin around his eyes. On someone else it might have looked charming.
“In case you hadn’t realised, they lock us in at night here, you know. Be a bit difficult to slip out and bump someone off, don’t you think?”
“At the end of September, you had a visitor by the name of Bradley Turner. He told you what you’d always suspected. Your daughter was still alive. Your son, Simon, told Bradley that in a chance meeting in a pub, not long after he’d made the same discovery himself. He also told Bradley about his past, how his father murdered his mother and how his sister disappeared, and his father was suspected of killing her too, though no body was ever discovered.
He told you Emily, now Amy, was alive and well and living with Nancy Hill, whose name you recognised from the past. Debbie used to offload the kids on her when she couldn’t be bothered looking after them herself.
Amazing, isn’t it, how Nancy’s name never came up at the time? She was so unassuming that no one would have suspected her of being involved, still less being capable of murder and child abduction. No-one ever mentioned her name to the police.”
As he spoke, Neal watched Bolan’s face closely. Bolan’s expression remained impassive but a tell-tale pulse throbbed in the side of his neck.
“I must admit to having a certain sympathy for your plight. You stopped just short of killing Debbie, but you were convicted not only of her murder, but on suspicion of killing your daughter too when you knew you had nothing to do with her disappearance.
You knew you were innocent of harming Emily, but it didn’t matter, did it? You went down for it just the same, because how else could her disappearance be explained? Simon’s story about the ‘angel taking Emmy to heaven?’ They thought that was his way of blocking out the terrible truth of what he’d really witnessed.” Neal paused, knowing he was on the right track, also knowing he couldn’t prove a thing.
“You needed to punish Nancy so you took the thing she loved most in the world. Her daughter.”
“My daughter,” Bolan corrected him.
“Your daughter. You were serving a sentence for killing her anyway, so why not make it justified? Who did you get to do it for you, Wade? An old mate, a stranger, someone who owed you from the past?”
Bolan leaned back in his chair, appearing to be relaxed, but Neal suspected a lot was going on in his head.
“You can’t prove nothing,” Wade said at last, and Neal smiled inwardly, satisfied now that he was right, even if, ironically, Wade was also right. He stood up, signalling to the guard that he was ready to go.
“I’m going to appeal, you know. Now it’s come to light I never killed Debbie nor Amy, I’m getting out of here with a truckload of compensation for wrongful conviction.”
Wade’s words stopped Neal in his tracks, “You’ve spent eighteen years of your life in this place. No amount of money can compensate for that,” he said, but his heart was in his shoes. In a perverted way, Wade had served his sentence backwards and he was likely to be well recompensed for his time.
Even if he were guilty of hiring a hit man to kill Amy, Wade Bolan could not be convicted of murdering her twice. It was an unsatisfactory conclusion to the investigation. Even tracking down Bolan’s hitman — which might or might not happen at some indeterminable time in the future — would bring small reward. The whole case, like life, Neal supposed, was full of small victories and crushing disappointments.
All the way home, Neal wrestled with his feelings. He thought about the letter Richard Turner had shown him a few days after Nancy’s suicide, in which she confessed to feeding Debbie Clarke painkillers and smothering her with a pillow before abducting Amy. Richard had wanted to throw it away without showing anyone, but in the end his conscience had made him take the letter to Neal. This backed up Simon’s story, which might otherwise have been dismissed as a false memory.
Richard Turner had also confessed to knowing about Bradley’s trip to London to see Wade Bolan. Once Bradley found out that Amy’s father was a ‘jailbird,’ he had wanted to use this information to hurt and embarrass her. He had had no idea that Nancy was not Amy’s real mother nor could he have foreseen the tragic consequence that would result from his visit to Bolan. Between father and son, Neal could not decide which was the more pathetic.
He thought also about Nancy Hill and the choices she had made. It had recently come to light that, while she had been in foster care, she had been raped, aged fourteen, by a fifteen-year-old boy, and became pregnant. The child had been stillborn.
Had Nancy seen in Emily Clarke the baby she had lost and now could save? No amount of tragedy in her life could justify what she had done to Debbie, but as Neal so often observed, people who do wrong have very often been wronged themselves.
He picked up his mobile and called home. His sister answered on the second ring.
“It’s me,” he said, “Is Archie home?”
THE END