Det Annie Macpherson 01 - Primed By The Past Read online

  About the author

  Barbara Speake was born in Connecticut, moving to England in 1972 following her marriage. She has had a varied career as a research psychologist and a clinical psychologist, as well as holding various management positions in the NHS. She and her husband Terry have two grown-up children.

  Primed by the Past (2011) is her second novel and introduces her series character, Scottish Detective Annie Macpherson. Her third novel, Programmed to Kill is another Annie thriller. (2012). Secrets Only Sleep (2005) is her debut crime novel. All three novels are set in the same police department in the fictional town of Westford, Connecticut.

  Kindle editions of all three books are published by Barbara Fagan Speake ©2012

  By the same author

  Secrets Only Sleep

  Programmed to Kill

  PRIMED BY THE PAST

  Barbara Fagan Speake

  Kindle edition published by Barbara Fagan Speake © 2012

  Printed version first published by:

  Country Books

  Courtyard Cottage

  Little Longstone

  Bakewell Derbyshire

  UK DE45 1NN

  www.countrybooks.biz

  ISBN (Print): 978-1-906789-52-7 ©2011 Barbara Fagan Speake

  The rights of Barbara Fagan Speake as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1993.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank the people who read and commented on various drafts of my book including: Sandra Smith on this side of the Atlantic and Teresa Covill and Marcia McInerney on the other side. My brother-in-law, Tom Covill, an attorney and avid crime reader helped with the various legal aspects. But it is to a fellow writer, Trevor Williams that I am most grateful. His editorial suggestions were invaluable. Thanks also to Dick Richardson for his publishing support for the print edition.

  I would also like to thank George and Evelyn Manson and their friend, Susan Riddell for helping me to create my main character and lending me their hometown of Huntly in Scotland for her birthplace. Each year they provide a home from home while my husband fishes and I write. George and Susan both have police backgrounds and they helped me invent a past for Annie Macpherson. As I interviewed them and they talked about their experiences, my new character came alive for me. I hope they like her.

  A love of reading and of writing was instilled in me at a very young age, and for that lifelong gift, I will always be indebted to my late parents, Teresa and Joe Fagan.

  To my late parents, Teresa and Joe Fagan

  Prologue: 15 April 1987

  It was always at this time of day that she felt sad. There were never any tears – that wasn’t tolerated. But she was sad nonetheless. Sad to see her best friend run off, knowing that she couldn’t invite her in to play, that she couldn’t be like other ten year olds. She never knew what she was going to find behind that door.

  As she put her key in the lock, on that glorious spring day, her hand shook slightly. Velvety silk red curls fell around her face, disguising the taut expression, the biting of the lip.

  With all her senses heightened, the silent counting began.

  One … the key turned in the lock. Good sign. Mommy can’t be too depressed today, or she wouldn’t even bother locking it.

  Two … no radio blaring. That was definitely positive. That meant there was no frenetic activity. Maybe I can get the supper on without being disturbed.

  She had an official classification, the one that the ‘too weary to care any more’ social worker had given her: ‘Young Caregiver’. But it didn’t make her life any easier having a label. It didn’t take away the constant worry. Only one person can help me.

  Three … something isn’t right.

  ‘Mommy!’

  The little girl felt her stomach go funny, the way it always did when she was scared, really scared. The usual spot in the den, the one facing the TV, was empty. The indentation was there, on the right hand side of the couch, but not her mom, nor her cigarettes or ashtray. Panic set in. Her eyes widened like a cat on the prowl.

  Perhaps the kitchen, but no, that too was empty. Actually, it was worse than that, it was clean. Everything was in its place. The ashtray was empty and there wasn’t even the smell of stale smoke. But there was a smell of something else, a lemony smell. Was it disinfectant or one of those air fresheners? But that couldn’t be right. It wasn’t like her mom to tidy up downstairs or try and disguise the smell of the cigarettes.

  The little girl felt even smaller as she stood alone in the kitchen: frozen like in a game of statues, sensing that something was wrong. Had someone been in the house? Maybe he’s back and taken mom out but helped her clean up first. Her heart leapt. He’s been here.

  Anticipating a note in her bedroom, she virtually danced up the stairs, swinging the door wide open. Running around the side of the bed, she knocked over the delicate China ballerina on her side table, her most precious possession. She caught it just before it hit the floor. Her heart was pounding. But there was no note on her desk. As tears stung her eyes and their saltiness dripped into her mouth, that churning feeling in her stomach returned. The house was so quiet. Think, think! He must have taken mommy out. She wouldn’t leave me all alone, not leave without telling me where she was.

  The door to her mother’s room was slightly ajar. At last the little girl allowed herself a half smile. Her breathing eased, and she quickly wiped the tears from her eyes. She couldn’t be seen to have been crying. Of course, stupid girl, the note will be in there. Why didn’t I check there first?

  She flicked the light switch gently, in case her mom was asleep, but the bed was empty. The rose coloured comforter was pulled taut. The room was perfect, everything in its exact place. The curtains were closed, but they were hanging absolutely straight, like they had to be. But there was no note, not on the bed, not on the dresser, not taped to the mirror.

  Then she heard the sound, a sound that would haunt her waking hours for months and years to come. It was a whoosh, the sound of something falling into water. She froze in place before she let out a scream.

  ‘Mommy!’

  Her voice echoed throughout the house, but no one answered.

  1: July 2002

  The summer night air was warm and there was only the slightest hint of a breeze. The fourth of July had passed and soon the last remaining firework displays would finish. The holiday traffic, busy and nose to tail would soon return to its normal level. But now, at this time of night, it was quiet. Angela Goodman sighed as she looked out of the car window. Although her marriage was over, their shared house remained her home and the tree lined street familiar. If only she could feel safe again. Then she might be able to relax, think about the future, about whether there could be another man in her life. There was still a lot to be grateful for: friends, people she could trust and a job that brought her the self-esteem she’d never achieved in her marriages. The car stopped in front of h
er drive, the automatic light triggered by its presence, illuminating the path to the front door.

  ‘Thanks for driving me home Jim and thank Jackie again. I had a lovely evening.’ As Angela opened the door, the car’s interior light shone harshly on her face.

  Your make-up could do with a retouch, thought Jim as he leaned across and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Always a pleasure. You’re good company and we love having you round. Any time, you know that.’

  ‘Thanks Jim, that means a lot.’

  ‘Good night.’

  When Angela stepped out of the car, Jim got a whiff of her perfume, mixed with the late night air. As he watched her walk up the path, his thoughts wandered. You’re still a very attractive woman, Angela, quite sexy. But you don’t seem to be aware of it, although I can never be sure with you women. Do you know the power you have? Maybe you were a tease in your younger days, like those girls back in high school. The ones who used to ignore me, or worse still, laugh behind my back. Shit, how I hated them. Are you really just like them?

  Now the suffused light from the hallway illuminated the front porch. Angela, silhouetted in the doorway, waved and blew Jim a kiss. Smiling to himself, he blew one back, before he revved the engine. He pressed the button on the car’s CD player and turned up the volume. Maybe he wouldn’t go straight home. Jackie wouldn’t be waiting up. She never did. Although it was late, he needed to wind down and knew just the place to start.

  Angela Goodman slipped off her coat and shoes, pausing momentarily to study herself in the full-length mirror. The lines were more pronounced than she would have liked. Did it matter? She would never do anything about them – besides, what for? Men couldn’t be trusted: two disastrous marriages had taught her that one simple truth. It was a shame they’d taken their toll in the way they had. The second one was far from settled. This week would bring more angst, more legal correspondence, more hurt.

  Tonight a nightcap was in order. Malt whisky, the one thing she never skimped on, to help her sleep. Lately, there was always a tumbler next to her bedside lamp. But before that, she would have to go through her elaborate checking routine to make sure no one had been in the house. It was downstairs where she’d noticed the first tell tale sign – an ornament moved just slightly on the mantle piece. No one else would have noticed, but she did. Then another time there were papers in the kitchen wastebasket that she didn’t recognise. At times there was also a smell, a man’s smell. You couldn’t capture that in a bottle and have it analysed.

  Mostly though, it was the way it made her feel – like she’d been invaded, her privacy violated. Then there were the memories it evoked, those alone made her shudder. When she’d tried to explain it to that detective last week, it had sounded so trivial. She’d begun to doubt herself, feeling quite foolish by the end of the interview. Each thing was small, but together, did they add up? Or was her mind playing tricks on her?

  At least tonight everything looked in order – the ornaments, the one used glass, even the paper under the kitchen door, precisely where she’d painstakingly positioned it some five hours earlier.

  Or was it? No, stop it!

  The ice rocked in the glass as she climbed the stairs, cursing herself for having forgotten to replace the upstairs light bulb, which had blown earlier in the day. Now carefully skirting the storage boxes holding the remainder of her husband’s things, she manoeuvred in the dark to her bedside table, switching on the soft, subtle light.

  A shadowy figure sat in the corner chair, only inches from the doorway.

  ‘Hi bitch, you’ve kept me waiting.’

  Angela Goodman tried to scream but nothing came out. The only sound was the glass dropping on to the wooden floor, the ice cubes slithering towards the cracks.

  2

  ‘Morning Scotty.’

  Detective Annie Macpherson could feel herself bristle, although she was too professional to show it. Two weeks, two long and tiring weeks since she first met the Captain, Marco Franconi, and she hadn’t warmed to him yet. She expected she never would. Her Scottish Presbyterian background primed her not to suffer fools. Of course, he wasn’t a fool, just a really irritating man who happened to be her sponsor, at least for the length of her six-month exchange. Franconi stood right in front of her desk, waiting for an acknowledgement and picking his fingernails – that annoying habit of his which inwardly made her cringe. The sooner she responded, the sooner she could get back to the file she was studying.

  ‘Morning sir.’

  ‘When Bronski gets in, I want to see the two of you in my office. We could do with catching up, so I can write my initial impressions of your exchange. What do you people call it? Um, an appraisal. I thought that’s what they did to antiques.’

  Annie forced a smile, although she wasn’t amused by his joke. ‘I’ll pass the message on to Detective Bronski as soon as he gets in.’

  ‘I guess I’d better tell them I can’t understand a word you say.’ With that quip, Franconi turned and headed into his office.

  ‘Aye,’ Annie murmured to herself, as her long blonde curly hair fell off her shoulder, thankfully blocking the look on her face from another colleague off to her left.

  ‘Oh, we are privileged, aren’t we?’ Dave Ellison chided as soon as Franconi shut his glass door. Annie found her colleague’s smile disarming and she’d warmed to him from day one. That would be as far as it would go though, given her simple rule never to get involved with anyone from work. It was still too painful to reflect on what happened when she broke it the one and only time. She enjoyed sharing the squad room with Ellison. His sense of humour more closely matched hers than any of the other colleagues she’d met so far. He had one of those lanky builds that Europeans associated with American basketball players.

  ‘Shut up,’ Annie said, just glancing his way.

  ‘Temper, temper, now. Is this the fiery Scot we were told to watch out for?’

  ‘Believe me, if you saw my temper, you would run a mile. That’s right, you lot still talk in miles, don’t you? Kilometres too complicated for you?’ Annie pushed her chair back and grabbed her jacket. ‘I might calm down if I have a coffee. You fancy one?’

  ‘I never heard of coffee being something you fancy, but I’ll have one if you’re buying.’

  There was that smile again, as Ellison closed his file and got up to join her.

  The saving grace of the Westford Police Station was that a Starbucks coffee shop had opened in the last six months right next door. Ellison pushed the door open for Annie, as she reached into her handbag, trying to find her purse amongst the debris. Her desk was a sharp contrast to her handbag, neater than all the others surrounding hers. The worst was Detective Bronski’s, her supervisor, whose desk was impossible to see for pieces of paper, files, unwashed coffee cups, who knows, maybe even a dead body. Her handbag, though, that was another story.

  Luckily, they’d made it just before the mass of office workers started coming in, so the queue was bearable. That was another thing Annie had learned quickly, don’t use the word ‘queue’. The Yanks didn’t have a clue what that word meant, neither could they spell it. As she waited her turn, she marvelled as she heard the people in front of her order the myriad variety of cups of coffee. It seemed so complicated and never ceased to amuse her. In her view, coffee was coffee, pure and simple. It woke you up, that was its function. But she would have the same as Ellison, it was easier that way.

  Ellison went off to find seats. Scanning the coffee shop, he studiously avoided any of the other cops, so he and Annie could have ten minutes respite from the job. It wasn’t long before she joined him.

  ‘Two skinny cappuccinos and I’ve splashed out on two muffins. Can’t have you believing all those stereotypes about my countrymen being tight with money.’

  Annie slid herself along the bench seat, loosening her jacket an
d concentrating on placing the cups, muffins, plates and cutlery on the table.

  ‘You’ll make someone a good wife one day,’ joked Ellison, while at the same time noticing how really blue her eyes were.

  ‘How do you know I’m not doing that already?’ retorted Annie.

  ‘Oh, the obvious sign, no ring. More importantly, no husband in his right mind would let someone as beautiful as you out of his sight for six months.’ When Annie winced, Ellison sensed it was time to change the subject. ‘So, how’s the exchange going so far? You enjoying yourself?’

  Annie cut into her muffin before replying. ‘Not bad. Bronski’s quite straight with me. He doesn’t want to mess up his first experience of supervising on the programme and wants to make sure I learn all I can. So far, it all seems routine, not much different from Stockport. I guess burglaries, violent assaults, surveillance, you name it, are pretty much the same wherever you are.’

  ‘You mean you have robbers over there? I thought it was all quaint little villages, thatched cottages.’ Ellison gave her a wink, as he took a drink of his coffee.

  ‘Apart from the big cities, the drug related violence, the little old ladies too frightened to go out at night, and the rubbish strewn council estates. Oh, did I forget to include the terrorist attacks? Regrettably, we have everything you do, except us good guys don’t routinely carry guns. I’ve only ever seen guns being issued to the Armed Response Team when there’s a specific threat or intelligence. I certainly don’t fancy wearing one of those shoulder holsters you’re all so fond of.’ Annie braced herself for a macho defence from her colleague: like in the documentary she’d seen some months ago about the constitutional right to bear arms, or some such crap.