Page 112 of Maybe Tomorrow

‘I believe him,’ she said firmly.

‘Then you’re a fool.’ He slapped his napkin down on the plate and stood up from the table.

‘What did you call me?’

‘You need to move on, Jennifer. I don’t know how else to say it, but you need to listen to me. Move on.’

The phone on Malcolm’s side of the bed rang. He answered it, said a few words, then hung up.

‘There’s a journalist downstairs who wants to do a quick interview. I’d better jump in the shower. I’ll be back late.’

Jennifer didn’t say anything more. She remained seated at the small table in front of the window in silence. Malcolm’s words echoed around her mind. She felt crushed.

Minutes later, he was out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist.

‘Did I bring those cufflinks?’ he asked, opening his suitcase. ‘Yes, I did.’ He looked up at Jennifer. ‘Did you say what you were doing today?’

‘No. I haven’t decided.’

‘Oh. Plenty of shops around here. Why don’t you get yourself something nice? Lots of posh dinners coming our way,’ he said with a smile before heading back into the bathroom.

‘You’ll be going to them on your bloody own,’ she said under her breath.

She waited until Malcolm dressed, kissed her on the cheek and left the room leaving behind a haze of overpriced fragrance he’d liberally sprayed on himself. She threw her clothes into her case and went for a quick shower. If she hurried, she could be back in Whitby before teatime.

ChapterForty-Nine

Detective Sergeant Freya Sloan walked into the petrol station. She hadn’t quite woken up yet having missed her morning coffee after Chris woke first and had the last of the milk. She was about to pay for her petrol when her eyes fell on a newspaper on the counter. DNA SOLVES TEN-YEAR-OLD MURDER, the headline screamed at her. She grabbed the tabloid and took it back to the car with her. She started reading it, parked by the pumps until the attendant told her over the Tannoy to move.

At her desk, she read about fifty-six-year-old Maureen Evans who was murdered while walking her dog in Greenwich Park in Southeast London. Despite an extensive police investigation, her murder was never solved. However, a dot of blood, smaller than a one penny coin found on her handbag revealed the blood belonged to her killer. In the struggle, he must have cut himself. Now, thanks to new DNA technology, the dot of blood could be analysed and there was a match with already convicted killer Alex Last. According to the newspaper report, detectives went to visit Last in prison and he admitted it once they presented him with the evidence. Case finally closed.

Freya angled her computer screen from the prying eyes of her colleagues and logged onto the internal system where she entered the reference number for the Alice Patterson case, which she knew by heart.

She occasionally did this to remind herself of the finer points of the investigation. She scrolled through the so-called witness statements she now knew to be a lie and shook her head. How many lives had DI Bishop ruined with his false evidence? Anthony’s and Pauline’s to begin with. Then there was Leo’s. Alice’s parents, Geoff and Judith who would be back at square one wondering who killed their daughter when this all came out. Also, had the killer gone on to rape and murder more women over the years? Freya shuddered. The horror didn’t bear thinking about.

As she took in the crime-scene photographs, something niggled at the back of her mind. She tried to fish it out, but she couldn’t get a hook on it.

‘You’re looking pensive. Or is it wind?’ DC Simpson asked her.

She looked up and smiled at the new recruit to the team. She tried to get on with him, but he was too cock-sure of himself. He needed bringing down a peg or two.

‘I’m fine,’ she said with a smile, as something dawned. She grabbed a pen and quickly wrote down the reference number of where the original files would be located, turned off her computer and jumped out of her seat. ‘If anyone asks for me, tell them I’m in the toilet with women’s problems.’

DC Simpson blushed and hurried back to his desk.

Freya left the room with a smile on her face.

In the basement of the police station, boxes of files ran the length and breadth of the room from floor to ceiling. Investigations and cases ran back years, decades even. There was no natural light down here, no moisture, either. The mass of cardboard and paper had sucked out any air and, when Freya inhaled, she could taste dust motes ashy in her mouth. She looked at the reference number on the bit of paper she’d torn from her pad and hoped it wouldn’t take her long to find the shelf where Alice’s case file lay.

She walked along the narrow walkways between the hastily stacked boxes. They seemed to wobble with every step she took. It wouldn’t take much to bring them all crashing down around her. More dust was disturbed, and she could feel it coating the back of her throat.

She looked at the reference numbers written in faded marker pen on the boxes. There didn’t seem to be any organisation to them at all. They all seemed to be randomly plonked. She breathed in and let out a rattling cough.

Down the next aisle, and the one after. She seemed to be on a losing streak, but then, she found it. She checked the piece of paper against the box a few times to make sure the numbers matched. They did.

‘Thank Christ,’ she said to herself.

She grabbed another box to stand on so she could gently take off the top couple, find hers, then put the others back, before grabbing the Alice Patterson box and heading for the exit. She needed to get out of this room and get a glass of water quickly.