Little Doubt Read online

  ‘She might have stood a chance if she hadn’t been wearing those.’ The CSI pointed. Kelly shivered; she’d been on plenty of runs alone, wearing headphones, much to the annoyance of Johnny, who told her never to do so, no matter where she was.

  She wouldn’t do it again.

  She looked at the victim’s face. Her eyes were closed and she looked at peace, despite the carnage below. It looked as though she’d tried to get into the foetal position. The speed of the attack meant that the entry points of the blade were either expert or extremely lucky. Gang-style attacks usually aimed for just those areas, though the perps were rarely expert. Ted would be able to clarify it for her.

  Knives. They were becoming endemic. Bravado made a lot of youngsters bold, and that was why so many of them died: they thought they could handle a knife fight. It was the biggest myth circulating around hormonally imbalanced boys needing a release for their passions in between shagging. Like general elections, knife fights weren’t won; they were lost. But this had been no fight.

  She took a sketchpad out of her bag and began logging the scene in her own way. She didn’t use computer-aided technology at this stage because she wanted to remember the scene as she saw it. As she worked, she confirmed with the photographer that she’d got certain shots and angles.

  She was interrupted by a phone call from the coroner. She left the tent and breathed fresh air, tucking her sketchpad under her arm.

  It was before they’d gone to Florida that she’d first called him Dad. It had been a slip of the tongue, and had been out before she could help it. She’d been about to apologise, but Ted had stopped her, saying he liked it. At work, though, in her professional capacity, she addressed him formally. He was on speaker phone and informed her that he was parking his car. She removed the plastic gloves and shoe covers and walked along the path to where she could see the police perimeter. When she spotted him, she waved and went to meet him. She wanted to hug him but held back. He winked, knowing her well.

  ‘You’ve barely been back five minutes,’ he said.

  ‘Middle-aged woman, looks like a contract hit to me,’ she said. ‘No robbery: it was quick and clinical. It’s a bit too clean for a gang initiation, and there haven’t been any escalation indicators from known members round here. I checked.’

  Ted accepted gloves and shoe covers and Kelly walked with him back to the tent. The professionals inside all knew the coroner, and the air shifted slightly. Somebody senior and important had just entered, and it made the situation graver. Ted Wallis was also physically impressive: his voice, his demeanour and his dress all indicated a man of wisdom and experience, and he automatically garnered respect. As he walked around the body, Kelly watched him, continuing to sketch and take notes. Ted spoke his thoughts and she didn’t want to miss anything. She’d seen him at plenty of crime scenes before, and she enjoyed watching his approach.

  He was a fit almost-sixty-year-old and showed no signs of slowing down. While they’d been in Florida, Johnny’s daughter Josie had stayed with Ted, whom she considered like a grandfather to her. Apparently they’d been hiking together. They’d obviously had a blast and Josie had been spoiled, while Ted looked more than just healthy and happy; he looked revitalised and younger.

  He knelt down to peer into Ella Watson’s face. Then he moved behind her and examined the wounds with a magnifying glass. With his other hand, he pulled her tight running clothes away with a pair of long tweezers, turning his head this way and that.

  ‘These punctures come from different directions, Kelly.’

  She went to him and bent over.

  ‘Look, this one looks as though the force came from here and upwards.’ It was the cut in her groin that he referred to, which had sliced her femoral artery.

  ‘This one came from above and from this side.’ He pointed to the gash in her abdomen, which had severed her aorta. ‘So unless your killer moved around her in some kind of dance, which is highly unlikely, given that there are no prints in the blood, I’d wager you have two.’

  Chapter 3

  Thomas Watson’s mouth was dry. The drive from the golf club to his home on the shore of Ullswater was longer than he’d ever imagined. No one had told him what was going on. His gut sat in his toes all the way.

  Why would the police have Ella’s phone?

  All they’d said to him was that they’d found it and they needed to speak to him urgently. They’d offered to send a car, but he’d refused. Jordan and Millie were at school until gone five p.m. He wanted to be at home. It made him feel closer to his wife, even though he had no idea what it was the police wanted with him.

  He’d called the closest of her friends on his way back on hands-free. None of them had talked to her or seen her.

  Maybe it was about the children. He called the school, who confirmed that Jordan and Millie were in their lessons and everything was normal.

  Normal.

  Why would the police, who were rushed off their feet, under-resourced and stretched to breaking, want to send a car for him to retrieve a lost phone?

  His hands shook as he gripped the wheel, tighter and tighter. He willed himself to calm down, theories about what the police wanted whirring around his head. Surely if anything terrible had happened, Ella would have told him herself. Unless she couldn’t. He told himself that the phone had been found after she had clumsily dropped it out of her always open bag – a habit he admonished her for – and it had been handed in. That was all. She’d been heading into town to do chores, and she’d mentioned a run. That was it: maybe she’d dropped her phone running and was wandering around looking for it. He often couldn’t get through to her when she was running; it was as if she fell off the edge of the earth.

  Don’t worry…

  She was probably at home, hoovering, or out in the garden, oblivious to the fact that she’d caused a fuss. Perhaps she was in the bath.

  He drove on autopilot, having negotiated the tiny lanes thousands of times. But today, he didn’t take any notice of the colour of the sky when it hit the lake, or the birds of prey circling over a field, or even the smiles on faces satisfied with their hike for the day and heading to pubs.

  He kept experiencing waves of nausea and fought to concentrate. He was shocked when he arrived at the entrance to his driveway, because he recalled none of the journey. He pulled off the road and drove through the trees to where two police cars waited for him. Two, not one. As he got closer to the house, the doors of the cars opened and two plain-clothes officers climbed out of one, and two uniforms out of the other. He tried to read their faces, but they weren’t looking at him.

  His hands shook as he parked and got out. His chest felt as though it was on fire. One of the uniforms came towards him and introduced himself, asking if they could go inside. He was firm but gentle: the voice of pity. Thomas had written enough reports and fired enough people to know that a shitstorm was coming. He swallowed hard and fiddled with something. He dropped his keys and bent to pick them up.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ He couldn’t bear to enquire after his wife by name.

  ‘Can we go inside, sir?’

  Thomas looked away from them and found the correct key, putting it in the door and turning it. The door swung opened and he stepped inside, wanting to run straight out the back, delaying the horror of the unknown.

  The house felt stiflingly hot. He led them into the small room at the front. It was originally a study, though since Thomas had retired, it had become a storage room for paperwork and books, and a place where the children could complete homework in peace if they wanted to use the Mac. He fixed his eyes on the desk and saw Ella sitting there booking a holiday, just weeks ago. He spun around and saw that the two uniformed officers had followed him in.

  ‘Goodness me, can you put me out of my misery now? I don’t think you chaps would send the cavalry for a lost phone?’ It was a rhetorical question but one that he secretly hoped would be answered with: don’t worry, everything is fine. Ella’s
most hated word: fine. He swallowed hard.

  ‘Sir, can you confirm that you are Thomas Watson, husband of Ella Watson?’

  Thomas nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said quickly.

  ‘We have some extremely bad news.’ They were warning him, to take away the shock. He groped behind him for a chair to steady himself. His knees were weak and his bladder felt loose. Why did he need to pee?

  ‘We believe that your wife was a victim of crime this afternoon and we need to inform you that she has died from her wounds, sir.’

  Thomas’s knees gave way and he slumped onto the chair behind him. He couldn’t breathe properly. The officer went to him and knelt down. He’d already removed his hat outside, and Thomas noticed that he was young.

  ‘Sir, do you understand what we’ve told you?’

  Inside, he wanted to scream, but he simply nodded. ‘Wait, no, how do you know? You said you believe, not that you know. Could there have been a mistake?’

  ‘We checked with the DVLA and the Passport Office, sir. We’re sure. This is Ella?’

  Thomas was shown his wife’s driving licence, which was registered to her Range Rover.

  ‘The vehicle is parked at Potton Park in Penrith, sir, close to where the crime took place.’

  Thomas looked up at the officer and felt his breathing slow and a loud humming enter his head. He was aware of nodding. The officer continued to talk, but it sounded like dull thuds in his head. He stared at him but couldn’t work out what he was saying. One of the plain-clothes officers came into the room and introduced himself. He was tall and broad and accompanied by a tiny female, who also looked terribly young. The police force was staffed by babies now, Thomas thought.

  ‘I’m Detective Constable Rob Shawcross and this is Detective Constable Emma Hide. You’ve had a huge shock, Mr Watson, and it doesn’t seem fair at the moment, but we’d like to ask you some questions.’

  Reality flooded Thomas’s skull and he began to understand what was happening once more.

  ‘Me? Why?’ He turned from one to the other, feeling like a vulnerable child being scolded by the headmaster. He couldn’t be living through this, but he was.

  ‘Mrs Watson was attacked, sir. It’s a murder inquiry.’

  Waves of nausea hit him anew.

  ‘Where is she?’ He couldn’t hear himself, was unaware of his mouth muscles working, so wasn’t sure if he made sense.

  ‘She’s being taken to the Penrith and Lakes Hospital. We would like you to confirm her identify formally, but there’s no rush at the moment.’

  ‘I want to see her!’ He stood up, but felt faint and sat back down again. ‘The children!’ He looked at his watch, but tears blurred his vision. He heard his voice but didn’t own it. It was just a noise that emanated from his throat; it wasn’t his. He had no control over it. His legs felt wobbly, even though he was sitting down, and he felt hot. Then cold.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ It was the young officer called Emma who spoke.

  ‘There must be some mistake. I… I can’t…’

  It was too much. Thomas’s body began to shut down and his vision grew fuzzy. He was aware of somebody leaving the room and coming back with water. Minutes seemed like hours and the room felt as though it would suffocate him.

  ‘I have to get out of here. My children…’

  ‘We’ve arranged for them to be brought home. Is there somebody you’d like to be here with you?’ It was the tall man who spoke.

  Thomas put his head in his hands.

  ‘Let me introduce you to a very experienced liaison officer. This is…’

  He heard words and nodded, but he felt other-worldly. He paid attention when he heard the tall man mention the investigation, and it dawned on him that they’d have to rule him out. He’d seen it in the press and knew that wives were usually battered and dispatched by spouses. It was a fact. Fresh horror assaulted him.

  ‘Mr Watson. I know it’s the most distressing time and you’re in shock. But to find out who did this, we need you to focus and try to answer some of our questions. It will help our inquiry if we can start with these questions straight away. I’m sorry, I know it seems harsh, but it will help us to catch who did this to Ella. If you can’t manage it right now, though, that’s all right.’

  Thomas stared. ‘What happened?’

  ‘She was stabbed. It appears that she was jogging. Did you know that she was going running in Potton Park?’

  ‘No. I mean, yes. I knew she was running, but not where.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Stabbed.’ He saw his children’s faces and hung his head. Agony spread through his body and clarity began to shift the fug in his brain. His wife was dead.

  ‘Thomas, was Ella in trouble with anyone? Had anyone threatened her?’

  He was being interviewed. Two minutes after finding out that Ella had been stabbed to death, they were fucking interrogating him. He let out a sob and the tears came. The officers waited. They must do this all the time: tell relatives that their lives were broken, over, no more. His thoughts turned to Neil Ormond from the golf club: he was high up in the force, maybe he could help. It gave him something to help drag him out of the abominable hole he was sinking into.

  ‘No, she wasn’t in trouble. She never gave anyone any reason to hate her. How do I tell the children?’

  ‘We can help you, Mr Watson.’

  ‘Have you caught who did it?’

  ‘Not yet. The perpetrator – or perpetrators – had fled the scene by the time the alarm was raised.’

  ‘There was more than one? Oh God.’

  ‘Nothing is confirmed yet, sir.’

  He could tell they were working him out, and it dawned on him that, as prime suspect, they were trying to ascertain if he’d ordered a contract on his wife. He began to shake his head and sank his face into his hands.

  ‘Had she argued with anyone recently?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was she in debt?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was your marriage a happy one?’

  He looked up into the eyes of the female detective and held them. She was rather beautiful and he felt sorry for her having to ask such impertinent questions.

  ‘Yes. Very.’

  They said a few more things about searches and forensics, but he’d closed down. As they left, he remained in the same position.

  * * *

  Outside, Rob and Emma exchanged a few early thoughts. In a minute, they’d head back to Eden House, leaving the liaison team to do what it did best. They didn’t want to hang around to see the kids. It was unprofessional and would be too overwhelming for them. They’d got what they wanted: an initial assessment of Thomas Watson, as well as the family home. They’d call Kelly from the car.

  Chapter 4

  Jackson Akers returned to his flat on the Beacon Estate in Penrith. He’d been at a friend’s all night and he needed to sleep off the party. His normal routine consisted of fixing bikes during the day, for a modest income, and running errands at night, a more lucrative but risky trade. Sometimes the two overlapped. He gave little thought to either occupation, apart from the fact that he preferred fixing bikes. He’d been told at school, a long time ago, that he had a flair for taking stuff apart and putting it back together. He reckoned he got it from being locked in his room with radios, CD players, TVs and other hot kit, nicked by his dad and stored at their two-bedroom apartment in Wordsworth Towers. The same block of flats where he lived now.

  At least he’d thought the bloke was his dad, until he never came home one day and his mum told him the truth. He was seven when he found out that his real father was in prison, with no possibility of parole until 2031. The man he’d thought was his dad, the man who’d locked him in the room with the stolen goods, beaten him, spat at him and generally treated him like shit, was some arsehole she’d shacked up with because she was lonely and he brought in cash.

  He never saw that bitch no more.

  They said at school that he was wilfully disruptive. They said h
e never showed a desire to learn. They said he was angry and violent. And they said he’d never amount to anything.

  The thing was, though, that Jackson found it hard to see what school was all about. It seemed to him like you just got herded into a classroom, told stupid shit about stuff that didn’t matter, ordered to do shit that got you nowhere, and given a piece of paper saying you could add up or write an essay at the end of it. He never saw any essay about fixing bikes, nor any mathematical equation for staying alive on the streets at 3 a.m. School bore no resemblance whatsoever to the values and skills he needed to survive. And until it did, boys like him would keep turning down a different road and travelling their own way.

  One of his favourite artists played from a Bluetooth speaker. It was drill and rap music: something else you didn’t learn in school. The language of kids on the street was unrepresented by the mainstream, and they had to express themselves any way they knew. The words – mainly banned on conventional digital outlets – were different to those used by ‘normal’ people, but that was the point. Those on the fringes of society, put there by those running that society, needed their own language to stay safe.

  He’d begun writing his own raps when he was fourteen years old. He never told anyone. Only recently, after a gig where he met the artist, had he been encouraged to send his work to studios. He didn’t receive many replies, but those he did advised him not to give up, and let him down gently by saying the time wasn’t right. The singer he’d met at that gig inspired him to keep going and he sent more and more work to agents and talent scouts every month. He worked on a rap in his head now, drumming his feet into the kitchen lino and tapping on his leg as his stomach rumbled.

  He was hungry and looked in his fridge. There was half a tin of beans and some slices of bread. He toasted the bread, threw a wedge of Cheddar on top, heated it under the grill, topped it with the beans and slathered brown sauce over the whole lot. As he sat down to eat, he looked at his watch. He had a package to collect soon. He never asked what was inside them, but he didn’t need to; he had a pretty good idea. Everyone knew that if the plods came asking, no one knew nothing.