O
ver the years I’d learnt to put my past behind me. It often felt as if I’d read about two girls being kidnapped in the paper, as if it had happened to someone else. Just a distant memory. I knew that Scott Headingly wasn’t responsible. He would have been far too young in 1976, only thirteen, and anyway I was fully aware of who and where the perpetrator of my crime was. I needed sleep, a lot of it, and that knowledge kept me tucked up in bed for eight hours every night. He was out of my life.
I mentally drew a line under Diane’s revelation and carried on listening to what she had to tell us. It was for the best. But, if truth be told, I’d been struggling to concentrate since seeing Daphne’s photographs in the Incident Room. They’d brought crashing forward the thoughts I’d been trying to push aside. Why would someone be taking pictures of me? Just as importantly, why would they then post them to me? It was a senseless act. My old friend Rioja would no doubt pour a little clarity on it – but standing between me and a glass of red was the rest of the day working on a murder investigation. I was counting on Wingsy listening to Diane as intently as I purported to. I was battling to stay on track. I won, but then I usually do. My sanity couldn’t afford weakness.
Before the Incident Room churned out the paperwork locating the two girls kidnapped by Scott Headingly, Wingsy and I needed to speak to the rest of the Headingly family. As Daphne’s brother, Donald Lloyd would normally have been our next call after Diane. However, the deceased’s brother
seemed less important now that we knew that Scott, her son, had once been friends with Jake, Daphne’s nephew.
We left Diane’s, thanking her for her help and saying we would be back, possibly in the morning. Back in the car, Wingsy said, ‘Jake Lloyd’s next, then?’
‘Yeah, just what I was thinking. Bloody weird family by the sound of it.’
‘Kidnapping children – sick bastard. Bet you never get over a thing like that.’
I didn’t reply. I had never told Wingsy about my sister and me. What was there to tell after all these years? Everyone knew I had a friend called Stan who was a retired policeman and looked out for me, but I guess they all thought I’d got nicked as a kid for shoplifting and he’d taken me home by the ear and watched over me ever since. Didn’t bother me. I didn’t want their pity and I’d never get their understanding.
‘You alright driving, mate?’ I asked, to change the subject.
‘Yeah, it’s only round the corner. This is the street. Diane said his was the last house on the right.’
As we pulled up outside a large detached house with a magnificent front garden, lawn like a bowling green, a man’s head appeared from the other side of the hedge. As he stood up, I saw that he had a pair of hedge clippers in his left hand. He beamed a big smile at us. Well, at me really.
As we got out of the car, he rushed round the hedge, abandoning his gardening tools as he went, and grabbed my hand before I could say anything.
‘Nina,’ he said, speaking very fast. ‘You don’t know how pleased I am to meet you.’
What on earth was going on? I assumed this was Jake Lloyd: he had the same dimple in the chin that Diane had, the same colouring and good posture. He certainly seemed to know who I was.
Wingsy appeared by my side. ‘Alright there, mate? Wanna let go of the officer’s hand?’ I was grateful to my friend for
spotting that I had a look of surprise on my face. It was clear to him that I didn’t know this man.
‘So sorry, Nina. I didn’t mean to startle you. My aunt called and said you were coming over and I was looking forward to meeting you at last.’ Jake prattled on, still holding my hand.
I pulled away from him and said, ‘Shall we go inside, Mr Lloyd?’
‘Oh, yes, of course, Detective Foster.’ He looked slightly crestfallen. His massive shoulders dropped forward slightly and he looked down, breaking eye contact with me. ‘Please follow me.’ He led the way past his beautiful garden and the highly polished grey Shogun parked in the driveway. He pushed open the front door and stood aside, welcoming us in.
In the vast hallway, the walls were adorned with large photographs of international landmarks. The vestibule must have been twelve feet wide; it had rooms leading off it on either side, and a central wooden staircase. I had to admit, I was impressed.
‘What do you do for a living?’ asked Wingsy, probably thinking the same thing as me.
‘TV production,’ he replied, glancing over his shoulder as he strode across the polished floor. ‘The financial backing is not quite as it used to be but it allows me to pursue other interests. Please, please, this way. We’ll sit in the kitchen. It’s the heart of the house and the warmest room.’
We followed him to a snug kitchen. It was warm, but not as big as I’d been expecting. The noise of a washing machine spinning came from behind a closed door. Utility room, I thought to myself – that’ll be why the kitchen’s not as large as the house would suggest. I liked the house, though it was a bit sparse. It seemed to be missing a woman’s touch. All that pointless crap we would buy: hilarious signs saying ‘The cook’s on strike’; candles that never got used; old, broken French clocks. I bought them all, silly cow that I was.
‘Is anyone else home?’ Wingsy’s question focused me.
‘No. Just me. I live here alone.’ He looked straight at me as he spoke.
It was true, he wasn’t a bad-looking bloke. At six feet tall he was about the right height for me, with greying dark hair but loads of it. He clearly had money, and his taste wasn’t too bad from the looks of things. I could do a lot worse, and in fact frequently did. He was, however, out of bounds. The man was a witness and, oh yeah, seemed to come from a family of total nutters. Shame, because it was a nice house. I could see myself living in such a place.
‘If you’ve spoken to your aunt, and she said that we were coming to see you, she probably said why.’ Wingsy said.
‘Yes. Please, have a seat.’ Jake was standing beside me and pulled a chair out for me. He might potentially have been nuts, but he had manners. Wingsy pulled his own chair out, scraping the legs on the tiled floor. I got the impression he was a bit annoyed. All three of us sat down at the table.
‘We’re investigating your aunt Daphne’s death. This is a murder investigation. Anything you tell us will be very useful.’ I got my book out to start writing, as Wingsy was doing the talking.
Without warning, Jake stood up. ‘I didn’t get on very well with her. I used to spend a lot of time with my older cousin, Scott, when we were kids. The crazy bastard. Then I realised just how dangerous he was, and I cut myself off from him. Aunt Daphne too. I never really told anyone about it, though Aunt Diane knew more than anyone else.’
‘Dangerous?’ echoed Wingsy. I looked up at Jake, who was standing with his back to the window, knuckles white where he was gripping the edge of the sink behind him. The sun through the window lit him up from behind, making his features very dark and difficult to see. I could make out enough to realise that he was staring at me.
‘Diane told you about the girls he kidnapped?’ It was a casually asked question aimed, once again, at me.
‘Yes, Mr Lloyd, she did. Our colleagues are looking into that aspect of the investigation.’ I gave him my official response, and shivered despite the warm day.
‘It’s part of the reason that my current work project is focused on historic crimes. I take my work very seriously. Kidnapping is to be a feature-length episode,’ said Jake.
I tried not to squirm. I’m not sure I managed it.
‘I suppose that you’re also here about Jason Holland?’ he asked. Another casual question – so casual, in fact, that I almost missed its significance. Thankfully Wingsy was more on the ball.
‘Jason Holland?’
Lloyd moved away from the window so I could now see his expression very clearly. ‘Yes. Scott and Jason Holland were very good friends.’
H
ours later, after a lengthy statement completed in Lloyd’s kitchen and several muffled calls to the Incident Room, Wingsy and I were on our way back to the nick. Our mood was euphoric: this seemed to be the biggest breakthrough yet. A link between Jason Holland and Scott Headingly was bound to have a relevance to the death of Daphne Headingly. The entire family seemed odd. Simon Patterson had mentioned, briefly during one of our phone calls, that the suicide of Scott might be looked into again.
To pass the time and stop our minds from racing, we engaged in the tried and tested method of ridiculous banter. ‘Right, Wingsy,’ I said, ‘if you had to be a flavour, what one would you be?’
‘Methane,’ he replied.
‘Is that your way of telling me to open the window? Look – over there. Is that Susan Newman waiting to cross the road?’
‘Who’s Susan Newman?’
‘Sorry, mate, I was with Pierre when I met her. She’s the mum of Josie who was friends with Amanda Bell.’
‘Oh, the sordid stinging nettle thing. Is she wearing a wig? It’s lopsided.’ He started to laugh.
‘Don’t, Wingsy. She’s a harmless old woman.’
‘She may be our killer.’
‘She can’t put a wig on straight; it’s unlikely that she murdered three people – four if you count Scott – and bit them in the process. I’m not even sure she’s got her own teeth.’
Made me think, though. I’d made my diagnosis that she was mad. I’d seen one of the mutilated bodies myself and photos of the other two. The offender couldn’t possibly be sane. The scariest part was wondering what could have driven someone far enough towards the point of madness that they would commit such brutal crimes – and whether the victims were chosen at random. We were just coming through the gate to the police station car park when I saw a figure walk out of the back door among the shadows thrown across the yard by the low sun. He was heading our way.
‘There’s Bill Harrison,’ said Wingsy. ‘He’s a decent bloke. He likes you.’
My attempt at being nonchalant failed. ‘Really? I don’t know him very well. Is he single? And not gay.’
‘Dunno. Shall I ask him?’ He opened the window and yelled, ‘Alright, Bill?’
‘For crying out loud,’ I pleaded. ‘Don’t mess this up.’
While Bill headed our way, kit bag slung over his shoulder, Wingsy reversed into a space and I jumped out of the moving car to distract him from Wingsy. ‘Hey, Bill. How’s things with you?’
Whether Wingsy chose that moment to help me out or genuinely had a call, I didn’t know, but he opened the door and announced, ‘Phone’s ringing. Be with you in a minute.’
‘I’m really good, thanks, Nina,’ answered Bill. ‘I’m glad I saw you. I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while if you fancy going for a drink some time.’
I’d have liked to think that my reaction was one of interest, but instead I must have looked either horrified or a bit simple, as he felt the need to add, ‘With me… Some time… If you fancy… Not a problem if you don’t.’
‘Love to,’ I managed to say. ‘Apart from work, I’m not usually up to much.’
He produced a phone from his jacket pocket. I took this as my cue to leave him to it; I didn’t want to get in the way of an important phone call. I made to back away.
‘I’ll put your number in here and then I won’t lose it,’ he said.
Such nice eyes…
S
kipping into the briefing would not have been appropriate, so I floated instead. Wingsy and I got a couple of ‘well done’s and ‘nice one’s for our discovery of the Scott Headingly and Jason Holland association. It was nice to be appreciated, but Jake Lloyd had offered the information to us and we had simply passed it on. It didn’t stop either of us feeling a little bit superior at the same time. I didn’t want to be modest; I wanted to stay on this enquiry.
‘Evening, everyone,’ said Eric Nottingham. ‘Don’t worry, the pizzas are in the building. I know it’s been another long day.’ The door opened and a stack of flat cardboard boxes entered the room, carried by the unsmiling Kim Cotton. The aroma of cheese, pepperoni and onion filled the room. Nottingham continued, ‘Pass them round, Kim; we can eat and talk. Nina, you can go first. Tell us about Jake Lloyd.’
Cobblers – I wanted pizza. I tried to look interested and not hungry.
‘Well, sir, Lloyd offered up the information freely,’ I said, glancing down at the notes I had made to check a date. ‘Holland and Scott Headingly met after both were released from prison in 1998. Holland was only twenty and by all accounts fancied himself as a bit of a big shot. Scott Headingly, having done time for kidnap, was someone for Holland to look up to. Holland had served a very short term for burglary. Jake Lloyd is not too clear on how or where they met, but he saw them together on a couple of occasions and later found out about Holland from his father Donald.’
I recapped on the family for my own sake as much as anyone else’s. ‘Daphne, our latest victim, has a brother, Donald, and a sister, Diane. The sisters didn’t talk but Donald was more of a family mediator, by all accounts. Jake gave us the impression that he himself kept a close eye on Scott even though they no longer talked.’ I looked from the DCI, at whom I had been largely directing my words, towards Wingsy, who was sitting on my left-hand side.
‘Yes,’ Wingsy agreed. ‘It was only an impression but I agree with Nina.’ He held a large slice of pizza in his hands. It was level with my nose. I thought about leaning across and ripping a big chunk out of it with my teeth. I restrained myself.
‘We also got the impression that the “close eye” was more because he didn’t trust his cousin rather than because he was looking out for him. Jake Lloyd is a bit odd. We’ve done the usual checks on him. He was cautioned a few years ago, in 2006, for theft. Looking into it, it was something to do with an ex-girlfriend and some property belonging to her. He said it was his. Later he admitted to taking it and so he was cautioned. Nothing else on him, just a bit of a feeling that something’s not quite right but couldn’t tell you what, sir.’ I directed what I was saying towards the boss, watching him write down the salient points of our earlier encounter with Jake.
‘Without speaking to Donald, the father, it is all a bit third-hand, ’cos Jake wanted to know who his cousin was mixing with, couldn’t or wouldn’t ask him himself, and went to his dad to find out,’ I added.
Eric Nottingham put his pen down, leaned his right elbow on the desk and rested his chin on his fist. The other hand he ran through his hair from his forehead to the back of his skull. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Why did he want to know who Scott was with?’
I was greeted with a slow nod of agreement. He stared at me. ‘You got a feel for Jake and you’ve met Diane. We’re
running out of family liaison officers and no one’s spoken to Donald Lloyd at length.’ Nottingham straightened up, checked his watch and said, ‘Go and see him tonight.’
Yeah, fine, but not without a slice of deep pan first. I stole a look into the pizza box just out of my reach. All that was left was an olive and the white plastic tower put into the box to stop the topping sticking to the lid. My day had nosedived since Bill took my number.
Next to speak in the briefing was Wingsy. Before he began, he slid a slice of pizza resting on a paper towel my way. Once more, life was good.