Die of Shame (32 page)

An unfortunate start to the session when Chris arrived, clearly under the influence of drugs. Asked him to leave but was persuaded to let him stay by Heather on condition that he did not speak. Rest of the group agreed, though this was certainly against my better judgement.
 

Heather told her shame story and I can’t recall a reaction as profound from the others in the group. A truly shocking confession involving a false accusation of rape which unfortunately led to the murder of a man with whom she’d been involved and the subsequent imprisonment of his killer.
 

The session ended prematurely after Chris exhibited what could easily be interpreted as threatening behaviour towards Heather. Diana, Robin and Caroline seemed happy to leave early.
 

In light of events at the session, I must consider whether I should now advise Heather to seek out a different therapist. Her story seems to have alienated others in the group and I will definitely need to focus on Chris in forthcoming weeks if his relapse is not to be long term. Heather has been an important member of the group, but her continued presence may be counter-productive from this point on.
 

A shame, but I believe that such action is justified and would be in the best interests of the group as a whole.
 

Tony closes the file on his computer then sits and thinks for a few minutes. He looks at his watch, then checks his phone to see if Nina has sent a message.

Nothing.

He walks slowly downstairs, stopping at the bottom to glance towards the kitchen – as though he’s afraid that Heather might still be there – before trudging into the empty sitting room. He drops on to one of the deep cushions and lies back.

There’s an open fashion magazine on the coffee table in front of him, an empty cup and a pair of Nina’s glasses. He reaches for the glasses and starts cleaning them with the bottom of his T-shirt.

You think
…
you can just stand there and talk about your shitting wife
…
 

Heather had stood there for no more than ten minutes in the end. Staring at him from the kitchen door and saying nothing, like some silent, bunny-boiling… harbinger. Like she was just happy to watch him suffer and let it sink in.

The threat, the solemn promise to tear his life apart.

It wasn’t until several minutes after that, when Tony had closed the office door behind him and begun writing his notes, that he had finally stopped shaking.

He puts the glasses back on the table, wondering how difficult it would be to pull out of the tour he has lined up in a few months’ time. Yes, the rock star will probably throw his toys out of the pram and sulk for a while, but he’ll get over it and all Tony can think about is how good it would be to take Nina away somewhere instead. Maybe Nina
and
Emma, if his daughter wants to come of course and if the dates work with school. They need to spend some time together as a family, they need to reconnect.

On second thoughts, it might be better if it was just the two of them. He wants to show Nina that she’s far more important to him than any of his clients. He wants to do something which will signal a fresh start, usher in a new chapter, whatever.

He wants… her. He knows now that, above all else, he wants his wife and his daughter. He wants his house and his car and his job.

Assuming Heather Finlay lets him keep them.

He’d told her that he didn’t believe she’d go through with it. He’d faced her down and told her she wasn’t the same person any more, the person who’d done such terrible things all those years ago. He knows he’d been trying to convince himself as much as her that she’d abandoned that rage a long time ago.

Now, he’s not quite so confident.

Could the feelings she once clearly had for him turn into something else that quickly? His own had, after all; on a sixpence. It was only a few nights since he’d been lying in bed with Nina, surreptitiously bringing his hand up from beneath the sheets to sniff his fingers.

Christ…

What had she said when she’d been telling her story?
Like a switch had been turned off
.

He stretches his legs out in front of him then kicks the empty cup from the table. He shouts in frustration as it rolls, unbroken, across the floor. He had wanted it to smash, but now he can’t quite bring himself to pick it up and throw it.

I went another way,
she had said.

Tony knows that, as things stand, Heather can do anything she wants and that short of telling Nina himself, he’s completely helpless.

He’s rigid with fear and with fury. His hands are balled tight into fists at his side.

He reaches for his phone and sends Nina a text message.

Asks her if she knows what time she’ll be home.

Heather paces her flat.

She moves from bedroom to living room and back, smacking her hand against the walls, talking to herself. She walks to the window and lays her forehead against the cool pane, but the headache continues to build; the pressure. She turns and grabs a chair, stands on it and reaches up to tear down the
HAPPY
BIRTHDAY
banner that has been there since the party.

The party she threw for
them
.

It’s such a strange feeling, being so angry and so sad at the same time. Being this confused…

She’s upset that Chris blames her for relapsing, for the state he’s got himself in, but she understands it, at least. She knows that he’s just lashing out and that when he’s sorted himself out he’ll realise that none of it is her fault. The Chris who spat on her, who flew at her in the pub, is not the Chris she knows. The pearly queen she loves.

The others, though?

Diana doesn’t need much excuse to get on her high horse. Heather had half expected it, had seen the reaction – the pursed lips and the icy stare – as soon as she’d mentioned the married man. Caroline is just tagging along because she doesn’t want to feel left out and because she’s clearly pissed off because of what had happened with Tony. The business with Robin is still a mystery, though. She’s been racking her brains since she walked out of the pub and it’s driving her mad.

What the hell is she supposed to have done?

She can’t get the picture out of her head, the way the three of them had looked up at her, back there in the pub. Judging and passing sentence. Wiping their hands of her, like all those things they’d shared and been through together were worth nothing.

Like she was worth nothing.

She’s as furious with herself, of course, as she is with any of them. Tony had only done what she’d known he would do, even while she was with him in that alley. She’s been stupid, simple as that, and though she knows she had every right to react angrily, she’s horrified and ashamed at the things she said to him after the session. That stuff about his wife, for heaven’s sake.

She’s not that person any more, Tony was bang on about that, at least.

She’ll call him, she decides, when she’s calmed down a little. She’ll call and tell him she’s sorry, that she didn’t mean any of it.

She’s standing in her kitchen and the screwed-up mess of kitchen towel in her hand is getting soggier by the minute. She’s not even sure why she’s crying any more, or who for.

She walks across to where the three clip-frames are fixed on the wall near the door. All those stars and smiley faces. She looks at them, then reaches up and takes down the middle one.

You are not alone
.

It’s ridiculous, she decides, thinking something like that – writing the words out, nice and neat and putting it on the wall so she can look at it – can help. It’s just childish, when the people who really should be helping can be so cruel.

She’s never felt so alone.

She carries the frame across to the bin, but can’t quite bring herself to drop it in, and she has just hung it back on its wonky nail when the doorbell rings. She reaches up to straighten it, but the bell rings again, so she hurries towards the door instead, pressing the kitchen towel to her eyes.

Making the effort.

The tears come again when she sees who it is; as she says, ‘I’m really glad you’ve come.’

Before she can open it fully, the door is pushed into her and she struggles to stay on her feet as Chris rushes past her.

Raging, roaring, out of it.

‘Having looked through everything you’ve put together, Nic, on balance I think you’re probably right. It could well be down to one of the Monday night lot.’

Tanner had worked with Martin Ditchburn long enough to know there was a major ‘but’ coming. She’d known from the moment he’d called her into his office having reviewed the case file. It wasn’t as if she’d been expecting him to uncork a bottle, but like most coppers – even the ones occupying the senior ranks – he normally allowed himself a moment or two to relish a good result.

When they had one.

The ‘probably’ didn’t sound good for a start.

‘Here’s the thing though…’ Ditchburn said.

So, not a ‘but’. A ‘here’s the thing’. At least he was doling out the disappointment in fresh and interesting ways.

‘If it
is
someone in that therapy group, and I’m including the therapist in this, I really wouldn’t have the faintest idea where to start.’ He opened the file in front of him. ‘No shortage of possible motives, I’ll grant you that.’

Tanner said, ‘Sir.’

‘Clemence seemed to blame Heather Finlay for falling off the wagon… Joffe thought she was blackmailing him and De Silva was giving her one.’ He shook his head and turned a page. ‘Then there’s the possibility that we’re looking at a revenge killing.’

‘A strong possibility, I’d say.’

‘OK, let’s assume you’re right, and we go down that road. It’s really not going to be as simple as looking at each member of the group, finding out if they had a relative or a close friend who was killed or sent to prison ten years ago, is it?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Someone who’s spent ten years waiting to do this will have put the work in and they won’t have made it easy. I’m guessing new life, completely new identity. They’ll have made sure there’s nothing for us to find.’

‘Agreed,’ Tanner said. ‘That’s why I think we’d have more luck trying to identify that original offence. Find out who Heather accused of raping her and who got sent down for killing him.’

‘Sounds fine, but what have we actually got?’ Once again, Ditchburn answered his own question. ‘We’ve got a murder committed ten years ago. Maybe ten years, could be more, could be less. We’ve got a possible first name —’

‘John.’ Tanner nodded towards the file. ‘Joanne Simmit, the college friend of Heather’s, thought the ex-boyfriend was called John.’

‘Like I said, a
possible
first name.’

‘We only need to trace one of them,’ Tanner said. ‘That’s all. Once we get one name we get the other. I’m convinced that whoever murdered Heather Finlay is connected to the man who died or the man who was sent to prison for killing him.’

‘That’s
all
?’ Ditchburn closed the file again. ‘This is exactly what I’m talking about. How many people were murdered approximately ten years ago, do you reckon?’

Tanner did not bother hazarding a guess.

‘How many people called John,
if
he was called John, went to prison? And most importantly of all, where are we meant to be looking?’

‘Well, Heather was at college in London.’

‘Right, but there’s no guarantee that’s where it happened. This older bloke she was seeing might have worked in London, but he could have lived anywhere, and if he was killed near his home we’ve no idea where to even start.’

‘It shouldn’t be that hard.’

‘Not if I had dozens of officers with nothing to do but sit in front of computers all day.’ He sat back, held up his hands. ‘I just don’t have the resources for it, Nic. Nobody does.’

Tanner nodded.

‘I know you think I just trot this stuff out, but seriously, it’s a bloody nightmare. We’ve got to lose another three thousand officers in the next two years and that’s just so we can keep standing still. In some places they’re sending Neighbourhood Patrol cars out on serious response calls. Panda cars, for crying out loud, without bloody sirens.’

Tanner nodded again. ‘So, I’m guessing there’s no point asking if we can just put surveillance on everyone in the therapy group. For a couple of weeks?’

‘Not even for a couple of hours.’ Ditchburn closed the file and sat back. ‘How many other cases are you currently working?’

‘Three open, two coming to court in the next few weeks and that domestic that came in overnight.’

‘So…’

Tanner reached down and lifted her bag on to her lap. ‘That it, then?’ She was not going to argue, because it was evident there was little point and because she was not that kind of officer. She simply wanted to confirm the situation. ‘One for the cold case lot to have a crack at in eighteen months’ time?’

‘Well, that’s it for you, certainly,’ Ditchburn said.

‘Sir?’

‘We’re not just letting this go, Nic. I really hope you didn’t think that.’ He looked at her. ‘Doesn’t matter to me if Heather Finlay was an ex-junkie or a bloody nun.’

‘I know,’ Tanner said. She’d worked with more than a few officers who prioritised victims according to social status and Ditchburn wasn’t one of them.

‘We’re just moving it sideways, that’s all… coming at it from a different angle.’

‘What angle would that be?’

‘Would you say that our killer is likely to carry on going to the therapy sessions?’

‘Absolutely,’ Tanner said. ‘As you said, they’re clearly not daft, so they know that suddenly leaving is only going to look suspicious.’

Ditchburn said, ‘That’s what I thought. Which is why we’re putting someone in there with them.’

‘In there as part of the group?’

‘Well, not
us
… someone from one of the Northwest MITs.’

‘Right.’ Tanner was already running through the names of the officers she knew on Murder Investigation Teams in that part of the city.

‘I’ve never come across this bloke and he’s not an undercover officer as such, but apparently he’s done something similar before. Lived on the streets a few years back, after three rough sleepers were killed.’

Tanner remembered the case, but could not recall the officer’s name, if she ever knew it.

‘So that’s the plan,’ Ditchburn said. ‘Obviously De Silva won’t be in on it as he’s one of the people we’ll be looking at. Our man goes in and gets his feet under the table, tells a few stories about his made-up addiction, and we wait and see if our killer slips up.’

‘You never know,’ Tanner said. She could see that Ditchburn was relieved when she stood up and stepped towards the door. ‘The other things, though. Those days and nights in front of the computer. Any objection if I do some of that in my own time?’

Ditchburn was already studying an unrelated file. ‘If it’s in your own time I couldn’t give a stuff, though personally I’d go for a good book, myself. Round of golf now and again.’ He watched Tanner open the door. Said, ‘I know this hasn’t quite panned out for you, but you did everything you could.’ He reached across to slap a hand across the Finlay file. ‘This is great stuff.’

He looked like he meant it, but the praise didn’t mean much to Nicola Tanner one way or another.

She knew she’d done a good job.