What Lies in the Dark (12 page)

The vendors had confirmed that this was a regular walk home for Madison, though it was not her usual time. She usually came through the park at 4:30 with another girl. Fletcher can’t help but think that if Isobel hadn’t died, then maybe Madison would have gone to class as usual and would not have walked home alone.

Isobel’s attack had not yet yielded any eye witnesses, no one so much as heard a scream. The store clerk was the only one who reported seeing her and not seen anyone hanging around the store, well there had been the usual crowds, but it was a cold night and no one had wanted to hang around. The clerk had a long night, another long night, a long week, a long, overworked tired week, everything had blurred into one. It meant the clerk had forgotten completely to tell them something important. They have searched the nearby bins again, searching for possible bloody clothing, Fletcher has the sinking suspicion that the assailant was taking all evidence home with him. Fletcher gags on a mouthful of cold coffee before continuing to read.

At 10.17 Fletcher is informed that Mrs Hilarie, Isobel’s mother has arrived. Fletcher does not know what to expect, half of him thinks that maybe Mrs Hilarie will be as funky as her daughter … was. Maybe a new-age hippie sort of lady, or maybe Isobel had been rebelling against her parents and Mrs Hilarie would resemble a typical tax accountant. Fletcher took one last look at the picture portraying the young artist with bright purple hair, smiling wildly into the camera and then went to meet her mother.

Mrs Hilarie sits quietly at the conference table, she had neglected to brush her hair or match her shoes. Her face is sorrowful, streaking still with tears. She fiddles with a
tiger’s eye ring, twisting it back and forth on her finger. She doesn’t want to be here, well rarely did anyone want to be here and she seems to be filling the small room with a cloud of desolate despair.

“Good morning, Mrs Hilarie, thank you for coming in. I am Detective Sergeant Aaron Fletcher, I need to ask you a few questions about Isobel, if I may.”

Mrs Hilarie nods slowly, barely looking at Fletcher.

“Is there anything I can get for you?”

She is silent for a few moments, then finally she speaks, her voice is a dull rasp. “Did she suffer?”

“I am sorry?”

“My daughter, did she suffer?”

Fletcher bows his head slightly, but still manages to meet Mrs Hilarie’s sad eyes. “No, death would have been near-instantaneous.”

“You would think that would be a consolation, but it isn’t.” She begins to cry again, half-sobbing the words, “It really isn’t.”

Fletcher sits in silence for a while, passing Mrs Hilarie the occasional tissue.

“Mrs Hilarie, I just need to ask you a few details about your daughter, to see if there is anything she may have told you that could help catch the person who did this.”

“What’s the point?” She wails, “Izzie isn’t going to come back.”

“No, but maybe we can stop him from striking again.”

She doesn’t believe him, she isn’t going to say so, but Fletcher can tell, just from the way her body has completely stiffened, her hands clenching and unclenching. No one, not Jack Sasha, not Robert Leona, no one seemed to believe in their ability to catch this guy. Sometimes even Fletcher doesn’t believe it. But then he also knows Bullface. Bullface will never let anyone fail.

“What was Isobel like? As a person?”

“Crazy.” The half laugh, half sob. “She was very open. I used to think she had ADHD because she could never stay focused on one task.”

“Did she have a lot of friends?”

“Yes, she was a very friendly person.” Mrs Hilarie says this almost mechanically, suddenly wanting to retreat from the sacred memories of her daughter.

“When was the last time you spoke to your daughter?”

Mrs Hilarie is silent for a few moments. Fletcher can practically see her mind trying to work it out.

“Three days ago … she wanted to know if she could borrow some money for an art project. I didn’t want to give her the money … I know what she and her boyfriend get up to …” Suddenly drinking too much with a boyfriend didn’t seem as bad. “But I told her I would buy the paints for her, for Christmas.”

“Was she OK with that?” Fletcher asks gently.

“Izzie never had it in her, I mean, she was never mad or upset. She just accepted everything.”

“Had Isobel complained of anyone following her?”

“No, Izzie would have confronted them, she is very fearless.” An unwelcome memory of Izzie had flashed into her mind, a fresh supply of sobs burst forth.

There is silence for a few minutes with Fletcher patiently passing more tissues before finally asking, “Did Isobel tend to go out alone?”

“No no, she usually goes everywhere with her boyfriend, those two were always together … I don’t know why he let her go out alone.” Her eyes are suddenly dark, now that she has someone to actually blame. Someone she didn’t think of before. Izzie’s boyfriend would not be welcomed at her funeral nor will he spend that many hours completely sober. Mrs Hilarie will be subjected to a number of phone calls begging for forgiveness. She won’t forgive him but she won’t hang up either.

“Had Isobel upset anyone lately?”

“No, no … no … everyone liked Izzie. She was such a …” Another sob, tears staining into Mrs Hilarie’s white shirt.

“You mentioned that Isobel asked you for money, do you think she may have borrowed money from someone else?” It is a long shot, a very, very long shot.

“No.” Mrs Hilarie’s tone is forceful, Fletcher could see that despite her current appearance, she is not someone to take advantage of. “I told Isobel never to borrow money from anyone else, she always came to me first. I know what you are thinking. Flamboyant girl, always getting drunk, could be going out and doing stupid things, but Izzie wasn’t like that.” A gasp, “Izzie isn’t like that.” Mrs Hilarie passes from angry to upset within a matter of seconds, a monsoon of emotions.

“I am sorry Mrs Hilarie, I need to ask these questions, just to make sure.” Fletcher’s throbbing headache is back, thumping cheerfully away at the back of his head. “Did Isobel know anyone called Madison Albrook?”

“That was the girl, on the news last night. Wasn’t it?”

Fletcher nods, not wanting to give more details than necessary, the news report had made everyone aware of the connection between the girls. It was only a matter of time before Adelina Sasha and Fran Lizzie Taylor’s names also rose from the dead. “My daughter had a lot of friends, there were too many for me to keep track of. I don’t recognise the name though. Izzie only moved here a few months ago.”

Mrs Hilarie lives about an hour’s drive away from the city, enough distance for Izzie to feel some freedom without moving too far. The university had been in a great location for her, since she had loved the city so much. A little part of Mrs Hilarie is now wishing that Izzie had chosen a different university instead of following in her mother’s footsteps. It would be a long empty drive home for Mrs Hilarie, with blame following behind her.

Fletcher views the new woman now sitting in front of him, Madison Albrook’s mother, Ms Albrook. She sits in a crisp grey suit, perfectly immaculate. Her eyes are clear, solidly fixed on Fletcher’s face.

“Good morning Ms Albrook, thank you for coming in. I am Detective Sergeant Aaron Fletcher, I need to ask you a few questions about Madison, if I may.”

This is beginning to become a well-rehearsed speech. To Fletcher there seems to be something very wrong about
this, something is whispering in the back of his mind. It isn’t because this is the fourth victim’s family he has had to talk to, he is a specialist in interviewing, and this is what he does all year long, interviewing victims, victims’ families, eye witnesses and suspects. What is wrong is how mechanically he is doing it, the well-rehearsed speech that requires no emotion, even his sympathy is beginning to feel forced. It isn’t right, nothing is right here.

“Good morning Detective.” She says softly, her voice giving a slight trace of accent. His speech may have been rehearsed but their replies are always different. Different yet still the same. Some like Mrs Hilarie are in the full stages of grief, barely keeping it together but others like Ms Albrook give the impression of a person still in control, someone who can handle the situation coolly and calmly. Fletcher doubts that the reality of the situation has hit her yet. This type is just a ticking time bomb.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” No one ever jokes here, no one asks for a million pounds or a nice car. No one asks for the impossible, no one quietly whispers that they just want their daughter back. Sometimes people ask for a drink but usually it is the autopilot response, a shake of the head or the ‘No, I am fine.’ Ms Albrook is a stern woman, breaking down and crying in front of a police officer would be an intolerable weakness. Jokes are a no-go area so that just leaves the quiet, “No, thank you, Detective.”

“Ms Albrook, I just need to ask you a few details about your daughter, to see if there is anything she may have told you that could help catch the person who did this.” He speaks softly, taking care not to mix up the names – to accidentally say Isobel instead of Madison. Ms Albrook nods quickly, just wanting to get on with it.

“What was Madison like? As a person?”

“She was …” Ms Albrook hadn’t always noticed Madison as a person. “… quiet, she liked to study. She always had her nose in a book.”

“Did she have a lot of friends?”

“She never really mentioned any friends.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you spoke to your daughter?”

A pause, Madison had not come home for the summer, she had a summer job somewhere, Ms Albrook hadn’t asked where it was and Madison hadn’t said. The sudden realisation hit Ms Albrook that it was November, meaning the last time she had actually seen her daughter was … Christmas last year, eleven months ago. Even then at Christmas, Madison had spent a lot of time in her room, she had coursework to do and Ms Albrook just let her get on with it. When was the last time Madison had phoned? A sudden panic fills Ms Albrook, she does not want to be seen as a bad mother.

“Last weekend, I think or maybe the weekend before that.” She lies uneasily.

“Had Madison seemed emotional? Was she happy? Upset?”

“No, she seemed … fine, just her normal self really.”

Fletcher notices that her carefully polished finger nails have been viciously bitten down and her hands are now slightly shaking. Sometimes trembling or shaking hands are taken as signs of guilt or an indicator that the speaker is lying whereas calm steady hands are taken as a sign that the speaker is calm, perhaps honest or a well-practised sociopathic liar. Fletcher doesn’t think Ms Albrook is lying to him, but maybe she is feeling guilty about something.

“Had Madison complained of anyone following her?”

“No, I don’t think she did, people didn’t tend to notice Madison in that way.”

“Did Madison tend to go out alone?”

“No, Madison was a very responsible girl.” Ah, Fletcher thinks quietly to himself, sometimes parents are the last ones to know, but then most other people have been saying similar things about Madison Albrook. The quiet, responsible girl that no one really noticed, the complete opposite of Isobel Hilarie.

“Had Madison upset anyone lately?”

“No, Madison wasn’t the type …”

“Did Madison know anyone called Isobel Hilarie?”

“No.” Ms Albrook didn’t even recognise the name.

“Did Madison know anyone called Fran Lizzie Taylor?”

“No.” She hadn’t recognised that name either. A second wave of panic hits Ms Albrook, were these her daughter’s friends? Should she have recognised the names?

“My daughter and I aren’t very close.” She mumbles in a way of apology, eyes suddenly downcast. Fletcher isn’t quite sure who she is apologising to.

One of the last people to speak to Madison Albrook sits, polluting the small conference room. Fletcher is tempted to open the door, strongly tempted, privacy and confidentiality be damned. The source of the smell sits in the chair opposite, a dowdy older lady, wearing a shabby raincoat in stained pink. It is the first time Mrs Chalmers has left her small apartment in years. For the sake of the nice-ish girl who had lived upstairs, Mrs Chalmers is forsaking her afternoon soaps, with a small amount of regret. If only she had a son talented enough to be able to programme a VCR.

Fletcher coughs slightly, the distinctive musky perfume is irritating his senses, burning his throat and the unmasked clear smell of body odour is slamming itself into his nose, Fletcher is trying unsuccessfully to breathe through his ears.

“Good afternoon Mrs Chalmers, I am Detective Sergeant Aaron Fletcher. Thank you for coming in. I would like to ask you a few questions about Madison Albrook, if I may?”

Mrs Chalmers has never been inside a police station before. After a lifetime of watching soaps and dramas she was expecting something a little more … glamorous. Instead she has been ushered into a dark dingy room, no one has so much as shown her a crime scene photo. She is very, very disappointed.

“Now, Madison Albrook was your neighbour?” he
asks.

“Yes, she lived upstairs from me.”

“How well did you know her?”

“She was a very quiet girl, I kept asking her to join Augustus and I for dinner, she always refused. She was such a shy girl.”

“What sort of routine did Madison have?”

“Well … she usually went to her classes every day, she was a student you know, some kind of ology, I always told her she should concentrate on her looks not her books, but you know what these kids are like these days, just full of big ideas. Augustus was never like that … Augustus is my son, I always thought they would make a good couple. She was just too shy to talk to him. Augustus is an artist you know.”

Fletcher doesn’t know. What he does know is that Madison did not have classes every day, her schedule showed that she was in class three days a week, and worked only one day a week. The chance that Madison had a secret in her life was high, though maybe it wasn’t that secret; just no one had bothered to ask.