Scared to Death: A gripping crime thriller you won’t be able to put down
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‘Why?’
‘The victim, all the key suspects and witnesses are trainees. Sixteen-year-olds. They’re young, vulnerable and frightened.’
‘More babies. Sounds like a nightmare brief.’
‘I’m sure that you can handle it, Doctor Poppins, after this morning’s practice and the Sami Scott case.’
Her mind cast back to this morning, skirting around the baby boy playing on the floor-mat as if he was an explosive device; four months earlier to four-year-old Sami Scott. The death of Sami’s mother, a bitter pill that she hadn’t yet managed to swallow. Still believing that she could, should, have done something to predict and alter that outcome.
‘It’s a bit less Mary Poppins and a bit more Doctor Doolittle with new recruits.’
‘Thank you, I appreciate it.’
‘I haven’t said yes, yet.’ She paused, heard nothing but Gideon’s measured breathing. ‘Who’s the Senior Investigating Officer?’ Her own breath caught in her throat as she waited for Gideon’s answer, waited to hear if it was Callan.
‘Holden-Hough didn’t say.’
And you didn’t ask. But, of course, why would you?
‘Is the SIO on board with the idea of a psychologist’s help?’
‘In the Special Investigation Branch what Holden-Hough says, goes.’
‘I’ll take that as a “no” then.’
‘You can handle it.’
Jessie didn’t answer, because her answer was irrelevant. She was going anyway, no choice. She glanced at her watch: 5 p.m. Relatively early, but she felt wiped out, knew that it wasn’t jet lag. Something about today – Joan Lawson, Malcolm, baby Harry playing happily, unaware that his world was shattering, Ryan Jones, suicide, madness – had sucked her dry. The tingle from the electric suit that she had felt first at the hospital, a tingle that had intensified during her session with Ryan, refused to subside, a background itch coating her whole body, barely there, but omnipresent all the same.
‘Can you go straight to Blackdown?’
‘Is there no one else?’
‘No one who has acres of time in their diary because they’ve come back from three months away.’
‘Working. Away, working.’
A heavy sigh. ‘You know what the government has done to our funding.’
She did – all too well. It was one of his hobby horses.
‘We’re all stretched to breaking, and you have experience of working with the Branch. What was that officer’s name? Cooper?’
‘Callan,’ Jessie murmured. ‘Captain Callan.’
‘Right, Callan. He seemed like a good guy. It might be him.’ The clink of metal stiletto heels on a wooden floor suddenly, echoing down the line, and a woman’s voice Jessie recognized as Jenny, the service’s secretary. ‘I need to go,’ Gideon said.
A click. Silence. Only the sound of her own heartbeat, slightly elevated, beating in the hollow car.
17
The afternoon sun cast a feeble rectangle of pale yellow over the bare wooden desk in the room that Callan had hastily commandeered for his interviews.
‘You were the Duty Staff Officer for last night’s guard?’ he asked, though his tone made it more of a statement than a question.
Corporal Jace Harris, wiry, dark-eyed and dark-haired, intense and on edge, facing him across the desk, gave a brief, fretful nod. Callan tilted back in his chair, crossing his legs, one ankle resting on the other knee, slid his hands into his pockets; a deliberately relaxed, matey posture. An obvious tactic, which always surprised him with how effective it was at breaking down defensive barriers.
‘So talk me through what happened last night.’ He fixed Harris with a steady gaze.
Harris shrugged. ‘Nothing much, sir.’
‘Nothing much?’
Harris lifted his shoulders again and his small brown eyes slid to the window.
‘One of your guard duty died, Corporal.’
‘Apart from that.’
Was this guy for real? He didn’t seem overly concerned that a sixteen-year-old under his command had been found dead. Or was it an act?
‘On your watch, Harris. Someone died on your watch.’
‘It was personal. A mate.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘It’s the word on the street.’
Gangsta rap in leafy Surrey.
‘Who from?’
‘Dunno.’ Harris swallowed as if his mouth was suddenly dry. ‘It’s not going to be a random murder though, is it? A terrorist or nothing. Not down here in middle-of-fucking-nowhere Camberley.’
‘Why not?’
Harris jerked his thumb towards the window. ‘Because nothing ever happens out there.’
‘Until last night.’
A reluctant nod of acquiescence. ‘Yeah, right. Until last night.’
‘Who found Stephen Foster?’ Callan asked.
‘Martha Wonsag.’
‘Who is she?’
‘One of the new recruits, joined the same time as Foster, five or six months ago. They were on guard duty together. She radioed it in.’
‘Where were you when you received the call?’
‘In the guard hut.’
‘By the main gate?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Inside?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘It was raining.’
‘Are you made of sugar?’
‘Wot?’
Callan looked at the sullen ferret face. Sugar, spice and all things nice. Hardly. ‘Do you dissolve in the wet, Corporal?’
Harris didn’t answer. He had retrieved a stainless steel Zippo lighter from his pocket and was rolling it in his fingers like a worry bead.
‘Why weren’t you outside checking on the guard detail, Harris?’
‘Because, like I already said—’
‘It was raining. And nothing ever happens out there,’ Callan cut in.
Sitting forward, he planted his elbows on the desktop and steepled his fingers. Was this guy for real? ‘Until last night.’
Flicking the lid of the Zippo lighter half open with his thumb a couple of times, the noise irritatingly tinny in the bare room, Harris sneered and curled his lip. ‘Until last fucking night.’
‘Were you alone?’
‘I’m not sure exactly what time Foster died, sir, so I can’t say.’
‘Were you alone at any time during the night?’
‘For a brief period, sir.’
‘How long?’
‘Five or ten minutes. Ten max.’
‘Where were the gate guards?’
Harris frowned. ‘They were around.’
‘Around where? Around the gate?’
Harris didn’t answer; his gaze had found the window again. Callan looked over. Two male pigeons had settled on the windowsill, were strutting back and forth, fluffing their feathers to beef up their size, preparing for a fight. He shared their sentiment.
‘Where were the gate guards, Corporal Harris?’
Silence. Callan waited.
Eventually, Harris sighed. ‘One of them’s girlfriend turned up.’
Callan didn’t even want to ask the question, knew what answer he’d get if he did. Instead, he let the silence hang, saw Harris’s hands begin to churn around the Zippo.
‘She’s off travelling for six months.’
‘And?’ He twisted the knife.
‘You know what – and – sir.’
‘What about the other guard?’
‘I sent him back to my accommodation block to get my fags. I’d run out.’
Callan rubbed his hands across his face, massaging his fingers right into his eye sockets. He felt knackered, would rather be anywhere than sitting in this featureless, white-walled box, facing this moron.
‘So Martha Wonsag radioed that she’d found Stephen Foster dead,’ he said.
‘Yeah.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Three ten a.m., sir.’
A stake in the sand. One stake, in quicksand. Infinitesimal progress.
‘So where the hell was she when Foster died?’
‘She said that she was on a toilet break.’
‘A toilet break? How long does a toilet break last?’
‘Mine? Ten seconds. But I can piss up against a tree, can’t I.’ Harris clicked his tongue sarcastically. ‘Hers? You’ll need to ask her that question, sir.’
‘Did you ask her?’
‘No?’
‘Why not?’
‘Why do you think? I wasn’t going to question a woman on her toilet habits, was I? Anyway, all hell broke loose when we found Foster. Utter fucking panic. My guard detachment were all new recruits, all sixteen, and they thought that the Islamic fuckin’ State had invaded Blackdown. It was like trying to control a herd of chickens.’
‘Flock.’
‘Wot?’ The corporal reached to scratch the back of his head – an action that brought to Callan’s mind a cartoon character wrestling with a particularly knotty problem – and his sleeve rode up to reveal the tattoo of a girl on his forearm. She was artfully arranged on all fours, her bottom, clad only in a tiny red G-string, facing the viewer. She was looking back over her left shoulder; a waterfall of blonde hair cascaded over her right. The look on her face was pure suggestion, or as suggestive as could be achieved with the medium of tattoo ink on a canvas of hairy skin.
‘Nice tat,’ Callan muttered.
‘Like it?’ Harris hadn’t clocked the irony in his voice.
Callan’s gaze narrowed. ‘What do you think about women, Corporal?’
A wolfish smile. ‘I love women, Captain.’
‘In the Army, Corporal?’
‘I don’t notice.’
‘You don’t notice women?’
‘I don’t notice women in green, sir.’
The sound of a rough diesel engine and a four-tonner drove past the window, scaring the warring pigeons into flight.
‘What was Foster like?’ Callan asked.
Harris shrugged. ‘A bit of a wimp, I’d say.’
‘Why?’
Another careless lift of his shoulders. ‘He seemed to be, is all.’
‘Did he shirk his duties?’
‘No.’
‘Did he complain?’
‘No.’
‘Did he take time off sick?’
‘No.’
Callan was getting sick of the attitude. ‘So what?’ he snapped.
Dropping the Zippo with a clatter on to the table, Harris sighed. ‘Look, I’ve heard about you, sir.’ Callan noticed Harris’s gaze flick to the scar on his temple. ‘I’ve heard about you and I respect you. But who the hell would you want watching your back, somewhere like Afghanistan? When you’ve got some crazy jihadi comin’ at you? When you’re in the middle of a firefight? Do you really want some woman or some young wimp backing you up?’ His dark gaze searched Callan’s face from under his black, spiky fringe. ‘Who would you want next to you, sir?’
‘Someone who is brave and professional,’ Callan said.
‘Brave and professional. Right, yeah, me too. But they’re not typical wimps’ or female traits are they?’
‘Aren’t they?’
The corporal looked uncomfortable; he’d expected Callan’s matey support and hadn’t got it. Callan glanced at his watch – 5.30 p.m. – a darker haze muddying the sky outside the window.
‘What’s Marley stand for?’
‘Huh?’
Callan indicated Harris’s other arm, where the words ‘Marley’ were visible tattooed in black on the inside of his wrist.
‘It’s my nickname.’
‘Why Marley?’
‘It’s just a nickname, sir.’ His tone cagey.
‘After the dog?’
Harris frowned. ‘Wot dog?’
‘There was a film, wasn’t there? Marley and Me. About a dog called Marley.’
‘No,’ Harris snapped. ‘It’s not after any fuckin’ dog.’
‘What then?’ Callan pressed.
‘I’ve had it for years.’ He blinked and his eyes slid from Callan’s. ‘Can’t even remember who gave it to me. Probably my parents.’
Callan sighed. He’d had enough. He wanted out. ‘Thanks for your help, Harris. We’re done.’ He paused. ‘For now.’
Harris’s narrow lips cracked into a grin. ‘Great.’
Callan pushed himself to his feet. ‘You know that you’ve made yourself a suspect, don’t you?’
The grin vanished. ‘Wot? I was alone for five fucking minutes. Ten max.’
‘Your accommodation block is on the other side of the base. It’s going to take more than ten minutes for someone to get there, find your cigarettes and get back.’
Harris’s eyes blazed. ‘The other guard,’ he spluttered.
Callan held up a hand, silencing him. ‘If my girlfriend was off travelling for six months, I’d want to spend more than ten minutes with her.’ Callan smiled. ‘Unless I had a hair-trigger. Does he have a hair-trigger, Harris, or should I ask him that question?’
The muscles along Harris’s jaw bulged.
Callan walked to the door. ‘Don’t discuss this case with anyone, and don’t go anywhere. I’m pretty sure that I’ll need to speak to you again.’
As he pushed through the door, he glanced back, saw Harris still sitting, his head now in his hands.
18
She noticed the red Golf GTI as soon as she pulled under the raised barrier into Blackdown. Callan. So the SIO on the Stephen Foster case was Ben Callan. Pulling to the far side of the car park, tucking her Mini behind a Land Rover Defender, Jessie cut the engine. The claustrophobic electricity from the suit still tingled across her skin and now, added to it, a wave of light-headedness at the thought of seeing Callan again, the combination making her feel keyed-up and slightly nauseous. Tilting her head back, closing her eyes for a moment, she took a few deep breaths, fixing her mind on the innocuous image of the morning sun rising over the fields at the back of her cottage, trying to slow the beating of her heart. She had thought about Callan many times since she’d last seen him, had been tempted, almost as many times, to email him. But she had no experience with men beyond meaningless physical encounters and every missive she had composed had sounded trite and uninteresting. She had no idea what to say, what tone to strike, even. In the end, it had been easier not to email at all.
She recognized Callan immediately, though he was standing with his back to her. Broad-shouldered and athletic, a head taller than the grey-haired man he was talking with, he was slouching, hands shoved in his trouser pockets, perhaps to reduce the height disparity, to listen more easily. His posture, the slouch, should have said ‘relaxed’, but Jessie knew that there was nothing laid-back about the rigid set of his shoulders, the jitter of perpetual motion in his long legs. He must have sensed her approach – someone approach – because he turned suddenly and their eyes locked.
‘Jessie—’ Shock registered briefly on his face before his expression settled into one of cool unreadability. ‘Doctor Flynn. You’re back.’
‘Yes, last night. Actually, early this morning, more accurately.’
The last time she had seen him, he had been unconscious in a hospital bed, bandaged and wired to every device in the room, touch and go whether he would live or die. He had lived, the second gunshot wound that he’d survived in as many years, but she knew that the wound to his abdomen had been devastating, that he’d lost nearly half the blood in his body before he’d reached the operating theatre. Though he was back at work, she couldn’t believe that he was physically 100 per cent recovered. And mentally? He was wearing a smart navy-blue suit, uniform knife-creases bisecting each trouser leg, a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, black shoes shined mirror bright, nothing there to upset her sense of order. But beneath the window dressing, he looked wrecked, his eyes washed out and skittish, skin pale and damp with perspiration.
‘How was the Persian Gulf?’
‘Good.’ She hunched her shoulders. ‘Interesting.’
‘Glad you enjoyed it.’
‘Thanks.’
He gave her a tight smile. ‘So why are you here at Blackdown?’
She had kept a picture of him in her mind whilst she had been away, had taken it out and examined it closely when she was alone in her bunk at night. Looking at him now, she realized that the picture had faded, blended with the faces of the men around her until it seemed ordinary. But there was nothing ordinary about him, nothing regular. He was arrestingly handsome and she felt what little confidence she possessed draining from her, trapped as she was under the unremitting gaze of those haunted amber eyes. Heat rose to her face.
‘I’m, uh, here to help.’
‘Help who?’
‘You. With the investigation, the suspicious death.’
‘I didn’t request a psychologist’s help.’
‘Holden-Hough did.’
‘What?’ He looked incredulous.
‘He called Gideon Duursema and I’m afraid that you’re landed with me because my diary was the emptiest.’
His jaw tightened. ‘Give me a minute.’ Pulling his mobile from his pocket, he flicked through his contacts. After a moment, ‘Colonel, it’s Captain Callan.’ His voice faded as he walked away. A pause. ‘I don’t need—’ she heard. Another pause, his legs jittering impatiently as he listened. ‘Right. Yes, sir.’ Jamming his phone back into his pocket, he turned to face her. His expression was one of barely suppressed anger. ‘It seems I don’t have a choice.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He pulled a face. ‘Not your fault.’
He turned back to the grey-haired man in the forensic overalls he had been speaking with, who had tactfully distanced himself when Jessie approached.
‘Morgan, I’m going to search Foster’s accommodation block now. I’ll take Doctor Flynn with me.’ The inference: keep her out of trouble, out of your hair. ‘Post a guard here when you’re done. I’ll call the dogs in tomorrow, see if there’s anything we’ve missed.’
Morgan nodded. ‘Right, sir.’
Striding past Jessie, Callan cast back over his shoulder. ‘Are you coming, Doctor?’
He walked fast, making no allowances for the fact that she had started off five metres behind and was wearing heels. She had to jog to catch up and then trot in his wake to keep up with his long stride, like some subservient wife. She was tempted to grind to a standstill and tell him to stick his attitude, but she had been briefed to work on the case with him and the atmosphere between them was already frigid.
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