Recompense Read online

  Her mother rifled in her handbag. ‘Hold your hand out,’ she said, and popped two ibuprofen caplets into Lissa’s palm.

  Lissa emitted a radiant smile at her mother. ‘I knew I could rely on you, Mum,’ she said, staring at the two identical pills. She swallowed then with the remaining drops of water from the crushed plastic bottle, and gave her mother a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Is Dad picking us up?’

  ‘Yes, he said he’d be there. Not long now, sweetie. Soon be home and we can put all this – mess – behind us.’

  Leaning back in the seat, waiting for other passengers to disembark, Lissa wasn’t sure if mess was really a strong enough word. Not wanting to stay in Spain a moment longer than she had to, Lissa had told no one that memories of the event, would she always think of it as The Event, she wondered, were returning. Nothing conclusive, nothing she could share with the police, but blurred images, flashes of light, and the smell of the room and the men were coming back. Realising that Dr Arandico was wrong about the hallucinogenic drug used on her, she’d thought visiting the place where it happened would help. She hoped that scenting the stale beer and sweat again would trigger some recollections. Nothing definite so far, but perhaps with time.

  Seeing that the plane had emptied and the cabin crew were looking at them, fixed grins which didn’t quite meet the eyes, still plastered on their faces, Sandra Warren nudged her daughter back to earth.

  ‘Melissa, darling. It’s time to go. We’re the last ones.’ She looked at her beautiful child, so damaged and broken. God alone knew what Lissa been dreaming about on the plane. She’d cried out and wept in her sleep, tossing and turning, unable to keep still. Sandra had tried to comfort her, but Lissa squealed, pushed her away and carried on with her nightmare. Sandra could see the changes in her daughter already. Normally Melissa would have been first off the plane, in the centre of the surge of people disgorging from the innards of the silver beast. Today she had waited until no one was around, no one to touch her. Lissa had never really had an issue with personal space, she was a loving, trusting child, perhaps too trusting, Sandra reflected. Now, if she looked at someone, it was with a wary suspicion. Eyes wild, poised to run at the first sign of danger. The road to recovery was looking longer and rockier with every hour that passed. She was looking forward to that first gin and tonic and a hug with Tony, her husband of forty years.

  Nunney, near Frome, Somerset

  ‘Thank you.’ Sandra reached up for the frosty glass of gin and tonic her husband had poured for her. ‘Yum, just what I needed. No one makes them like you, my darling.’

  ‘Oh you sweet talker,’ Tony Warren replied. ‘Still flattery gets you everywhere with me. Shove up.’

  Sandra raised her shoeless feet and Tony sat, placing them on his lap. ‘I should have come with you,’ he said. ‘I felt bad, not being there for both of you.’

  ‘I know,’ Sandra sighed, ‘but who would have looked after the kennels at such short notice? And you would have been angry with that inspector. The woman was okay. She was a bit gentler with her questioning, but she still had to ask those awful questions.’

  ‘And what about Lissa? You think she’s starting to remember?’

  His wife nodded. ‘Yes, very much so. She slept on the plane but was fighting something, someone, in her dreams. She kept crying out but didn’t wake up. I tried stroking her forehead to calm her down, but she just lashed out at me. I’ve not felt so helpless since she had chicken pox and we had to stop her scratching.’

  Tony smiled at the memory and took a sip of his gin. He placed his glass on a small table and started rubbing his wife’s feet. ‘I still wish I could have been there for you.’

  ‘You’re here now,’ she replied, ‘and I think the worst is yet to come.’

  18th September 2015

  Nunney, near Frome, Somerset

  ‘Lissa, are you awake yet?’ Tony Warren balanced the tray against his hip and pushed the bedroom door open. ‘Lissa?’ He approached her sleeping form and shook her shoulder.

  Instantly she sat up, awake and screaming. Arms flailing, she knocked the tray out of his hands and huddled in the corner of the bed, back against the wall with the pillow hugged against her for protection.

  Tony looked at the upended toast and the tea soaking into the carpet. The last rose of summer broken and lying in a pool of orange juice that was also rapidly leaching away. Then he looked at his daughter, unwashed, unkempt and smelling like a polecat. Her hair was so oily he thought he would be able to scrape the grease out.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ he muttered, and he knelt down, righted the tray and collected everything together. Taking one last look at Lissa, he left the room and went back to the peace and comfort of the large kitchen. The light from the lantern roof flooded in, reflecting off the black granite worktops. Since his retirement, the kitchen had become his favourite room in the house. He’d told Sandra it was her retirement too and he’d taken over the running of the kennels and attended classes in French cuisine, producing beautiful dinners while she studied art history at the local college.

  As he placed the tray and its shattered breakfast on the countertop, Sandra looked at him. ‘Any luck?’ she asked.

  ‘She looks worse than ever,’ he replied. ‘She’s not slept and her nightmares are beginning to scare me. We need to get someone to help. There’s no way we can do this on our own.’

  ‘You’re not going to have her sectioned are you?’ Sandra’s voice grew shrill and she flushed with the horror of sending her daughter away. ‘She needs to be here,’ she hissed. ‘Sending her away will do her no good at all.’

  ‘At the moment, keeping her here isn’t helping either,’ retorted Tony. ‘I’m going to call Graeme Jarman and see if he can pop round later after his rounds. It’s time we got some professional help.’

  Dr Jarman put his head around the corner of the kitchen door. Tony saw him and beckoned him in.

  ‘You don’t have to stand on ceremony here, doc,’ Tony said. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘I’d prefer coffee, to be honest,’ Graeme Jarman said as he put his oversized bag on the floor. He sat on the sofa in the living-kitchen and relaxed back against the cushions. ‘I’ve still got a couple more visits and then evening surgery.’

  ‘Coffee it is then,’ Tony said, and busied himself with cups and a cafetière dreading what the doctor had to say. He brought the tray over to the sofa and placed it on the coffee table, then poured the fragrant brew and offered biscuits. Slow, precise movements putting off the moment of knowing what was wrong with his daughter. At last he dragged the armchair closer and picked up his mug. ‘So, Graeme, what’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Tony, there’s nothing wrong with her, per se, but she is beginning to remember what happened and it’s causing a quite natural stress reaction.’

  ‘She screamed when I woke her.’

  ‘Yes, the memories seem to be coming back in dreams, nightmares. None of them are very nice.’ The doctor sipped his coffee and, failing to resist temptation as he so often did, picked up a biscuit from the plate.

  ‘But she’s so filthy. I don’t know the last time she washed.’

  ‘Be gentle with her. It will take time. I’ve prescribed some antidepressants, make sure she takes them and in a few weeks you’ll begin to see a difference.’ Dr Jarman scrawled his signature across the bottom of the pad and passed the prescription across to Tony.

  ‘And her mental state? She’s hardly left her room since we brought her home.’

  ‘Try and persuade her into the garden for some fresh air. It’ll do her good. You might try this person. She’s got a lot of experience with PTSD. You can call her and get Melissa an appointment. Sooner rather than later, I’d suggest.’ Graeme scribbled in his notebook, tore off the scrap of paper and handed it to Tony, who squinted at the writing of his boyhood friend.

  ‘I sometimes wonder if you became a doctor because your handwriting was so bad or if it’s got worse since,’ Tony muttere
d. ‘Is that a five or a six?’

  ‘Six,’ said Graeme holding the paper at arm’s length. ‘Must be off. Get Lissa to start taking the tablets asap. Call Torrie. She’s actually quite good.’ He snaffled a last biscuit, picked up his bag and strolled to the front door.

  Tony stood staring at the name Victoria Jericho, hoping that he could make out the rest of the numbers.

  Chapter Nine

  3rd May 2018

  Gippingford Police HQ

  DC Jane Lacey pinned a photograph of the victim onto the board. Now that they had a name they would be able to undertake detailed investigations into his life.

  ‘Hi, Jane,’ said a voice. Gentle, soft, and modulated with a hint of rich Caribbean tones.

  ‘Sarge!’ Jane whirled around, holding her arms wide as if to give the man a hug. Then she remembered herself and gave him an enthusiastic handshake instead. ‘You’re back! The guv said it’d be another couple of weeks. It’s great to see you.’

  Detective Sergeant Ben Poole smiled down at her, his dark eyes shining. ‘It’s good to be back,’ he replied. ‘So what have we got here?’

  ‘An unusual method of dispatch,’ Jane began. ‘Possibly poison – we’re still waiting on the tox screen, but definitely castration. I rather think he upset someone. It took a while before we found out who he was. No one reported him as a misper initially and, although we got a response to the e-fit fairly quickly, that was anonymous so we weren’t able to do any follow-ups. It seemed as if no one was missing him. I’m just getting some background now. His neighbours didn’t really know him, apart from complaining about noise from music and TV. He wasn’t working, but he hadn’t signed on. Bank statement looks healthy though. I was just going to see his previous employers to get some more insight into him.’

  ‘Mind if I come along?’ asked Poole.

  Jane grinned at him as she grabbed her bag. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I want to know why no one was interested in telling us about him.’

  The Gippingford Building Society sat halfway down the high street. It was a squat building of pale stone with large, barred, Georgian-style windows which glinted in the welcome spring sunshine. Lacey and Poole strode past ancient, heavy wooden doors and the glass inner door slid open.

  After showing their identification they were met by the society’s manager and she took them to her office.

  ‘Steve Marchant,’ she said, indicating that they should sit down. She took a seat at an old, battered looking desk. Not an antique – just old and past it – in stark contrast to the woman behind it. She smoothed her short fair hair, pushed her glasses further up her nose, and pulled her chair in closer toward the desk. ‘That’s a name I’d hoped I’d never hear again,’ she said with a long sigh.

  ‘Why?’ asked Poole. ‘Perhaps you could tell us about his employment here?’

  ‘We had to let Steve go,’ she said, polishing the nail of her index finger with her left thumb. She seemed unable to face the handsome policeman in front of her.

  Poole waited for her to continue and Jane sat with pen hovering over her notebook. After a few moments of silence, Poole cleared his throat and the noise jerked the woman back into the present.

  ‘Steve was, for the most part, a good employee.’ She began as she shuffled through the file in front of her. ‘He started off on the front desk and was popular with the customers. He was promoted to the back office and made a team leader. But there was always something… something a bit off about him. When I came here three years ago, there were rumours, some gossip, nothing explicit but just hints of something. Then Felicity started working here. On the front desk as all our new starters do. From the very start, Steve made a play for her and it was clear that it was unwelcome attention. He was warned, verbally, and again later in writing, but it was as if he couldn’t help himself. Eventually after the Christmas party incident, we had to let him go.’

  ‘What happened at the Christmas party?’ asked Poole gently.

  ‘He got Felicity very drunk and tried to…’ she paused, biting her lip.

  ‘Rape her?’ said Poole, his voice no longer gentle.

  ‘Yes, he got her into a room at the hotel where we had our Christmas do. Someone heard her yelling. Fortunately. He had to be pulled off her.’

  ‘And was this reported to the police at the time?’

  The manager hung her head. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Head office got involved and demanded that we kept it all quiet. Steve was dismissed, and made to sign an non-disclosure agreement in return for six months’ salary. Felicity signed an NDA too. We’re paying for her to receive therapy at the moment. Head office wanted to dismiss her too but I argued against that. She’d done nothing wrong. Why should she lose her job because of some jerk?’ She spat the words, flushed with anger, and her blue eyes flashed like sapphires in sunlight.

  ‘And when you saw his e-fit in the newspaper? Did no one think to come forward and say they knew who he was?’

  ‘I don’t know why that didn’t happen,’ she sighed again. It seemed to soothe her outburst. ‘Although he didn’t have many friends here. And, after what happened with Felicity, he had no friends at all. I suppose no one wanted to get involved.’

  Poole exhaled audibly. ‘You’ve all held up a police enquiry,’ he said. ‘Marchant has been dead a whole month and you’ve prevented us from finding his murderer. Perverting the course of justice is an offence which carries a custodial sentence. Where is Felicity now? Is she still with the bank? We need to speak to her without delay.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied the manager. She pushed herself out of the chair. Her face flushed and knuckles white on Marchant’s personnel folder. ‘I’ll get someone to fetch her.’

  ‘Typical,’ said Poole as the manager left the room. ‘Face saving, and in the meantime we’ve got a month-old body and no answers. You said that the identification came through Crimestoppers?’

  ‘Yes, skip. The caller wouldn’t give their name though. But it must have been someone who knew him well enough to know where he lived too.’

  ‘Not one of the neighbours?’

  ‘No, though obviously I don’t know for sure. The house-to-house didn’t throw up anything other than he was a bit of a smoothie, thought he was a ladies’ man, but that didn’t seem to be an opinion shared by his female neighbours.’ Jane was about to say more when the door opened and a diminutive woman walked into the room.

  Her long dark hair was scraped back off her face into a ponytail. Oversized, unfashionable clothing hung from her frame giving the impression of a child playing dressing up. She wore no make-up and her skin showed signs of an acne breakout. Jane found herself wondering if that had been present before her attack.

  Unfortunately she was able to add little more to the picture of Steve Marchant than they already had. She refused to talk about the attack, citing that she had signed a non-disclosure agreement, and would have to stand by that or lose her job. As she spoke, in a voice that both officers struggled to hear, she trembled and Jane knew she was reliving every moment of her ordeal. She wanted to stop pushing and asking for answers, but knew that she could not. That she should not. Whatever kind of person Marchant was, he had been murdered and in a very unpleasant manner. His killer needs bringing to justice, Jane thought, although she could not imagine the crime being perpetrated by the tiny woman in front of her.

  ‘I can’t tell you anything more,’ Felicity murmured. ‘I’m still trying to discuss that night with my counsellor. I don’t go out much nowadays. I’m not sorry that he’s dead, but I didn’t kill him and I don’t know who did. In all honesty, I just want to put it all behind me and move on with my life.’

  She was unable to look either officer in the face and Jane realised that it would take a long time for her to move on at all.

  ‘What did you think of Felicity?’ asked Jane, once they were back in the car. She pulled the sun visor down, before she glanced at Poole.

  ‘Part of me thinks she’s hiding something and part
of me just feels really sorry for her,’ Poole said. ‘Do you think she’ll be able to move on with her life?’

  ‘I guess it depends on how good the therapist is, but looking at her now… Well you saw her. Spotty. No make-up, like she’s trying to blend into the background. Is that how she looked before he attacked her? I bet it’s not.’ Jane thumped the steering wheel. ‘Men like that just make me so mad. It’s not just the physical aspect of feeling powerless, it’s dealing with it all afterwards. How you look at people. Men especially. Not wanting to draw attention to yourself.’

  Jane sat quietly, one hand on the steering wheel and the other fiddling with the car keys. She looked at Poole and pursed her lips. ‘I guess I should tell you that I’ve kept in touch with Sarah Jenkins,’ she finished, leaving the sentence hanging in the air.

  Sarah Jenkins, the reporter from the last case Jane had worked with Poole, was still recovering from her rape. Jane knew that Sarah was one of the reasons Poole had found it necessary to take time away. He had blamed himself for the attack on Sarah, in spite of everything, and Jane wondered if he still did.

  ‘Men like that make me mad too,’ Poole replied softly. He fell silent and Jane sensed his moroseness. She started the car and pulled out of the car park, concentrating on the heavy traffic, using it as a reason to stay silent, but after a while she could stand it no longer.

  ‘How are you doing?’ she said, hoping to change the subject and brighten the mood.

  ‘It is good to be back,’ he replied. ‘I’m not sure how much more feeding up I could have taken from Netty. She’s my grandmother. It was good to be home for a while. She can’t travel anymore, so I have to visit her. For as long as she’ll be around.’

  Jane glanced at him. Poole was beaming. His face had transfixed into a dreamy smile. ‘It seems to have done you good,’ she said.