Dead in Time (The Sara Jones Cycle Book 1) Read online

  Sara took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘You and I have both seen things we can’t explain,’ she said. ‘But I’ve also found that most people who claim to have special powers are either deluded or lying for their own gain.’

  ‘Most,’ Jamie agreed. ‘But it’s hard to say that about all of them, isn’t it?’

  She chewed on her lower lip, but avoided answering his question. ‘I need to talk to the people our killer claims to have avenged. Then, maybe I’ll know more.’

  Jamie nodded. ‘I think it’s a good idea.’ He rubbed his eyes, still tired but visibly more relaxed. Sara smiled awkwardly, and stood again. She put the frying pan back on the heat.

  ‘One of you will know the truth,’ Jamie quoted. ‘What do you think he means by that?’

  Sara shook her head. ‘I have no idea,’ she said.

  She did not voice her suspicion that she might yet learn.

  All morning, Jamie’s physical exhaustion had clashed with the adrenaline rush, and spirals of questions, that came in the wake of important new evidence. His conversation with Sara had offered the kind of insights he had so often relied on in the past. Her trenchant observations and furious certainty had always made her a valuable ally – and now he felt she might be his ally once again.

  And yet, as they ate in near-silence, Jamie realised neither of them knew where to take the conversation next. It was the first time they had shared a personal moment since the previous winter.

  Without consciously intending to do so, Jamie found himself saying, ‘Inspector Lloyd doesn’t like me, does she?’

  Sara looked up at him with surprise that gave way quickly to a look of wry amusement. She chewed her food slowly and swallowed before saying, ‘She respects you as a detective inspector.’

  Jamie smiled at her diplomacy. ‘Do I threaten her?’

  Sara wrinkled her nose. ‘Why would you?’

  ‘Well ...’ He shrugged. ‘I thought she might see me as competition.’

  ‘Really?’ Sara asked dubiously. ‘I can’t imagine why; you two have nothing in common. You work in London, she works here. You’re from Special Branch, and she runs a sub-station.’ She took another mouthful of pasta, as if the issue had been resolved.

  ‘I didn’t mean professionally,’ Jamie countered, and drew a deep breath before plunging ahead. ‘I meant, she might see me as competition for you.’

  Sara swallowed and furrowed her brow as she turned over the implications of Jamie’s suggestion. Deliberately, she set down her fork. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, an edge of suspicion creeping into her voice.

  He shrugged awkwardly and wondered how he could put it without sounding like a lout. ‘I mean, don’t you think she’s ... well, perhaps a bit sweet on you?’

  Sara stared at him blankly. ‘Sweet on me?’

  ‘Bad choice of words,’ he conceded, and groaned inwardly. He found himself wishing he could turn back time by about ninety seconds. ‘I only mean,’ he stammered, ‘that I’ve noticed she –’

  ‘Ceri cares about me, yes,’ Sara bristled. ‘And I care about her. She’s like a mother to me.’

  ‘A mother? She’s only a few years older than you.’

  ‘Eight,’ Sara said crisply. ‘She’s forty-two. And back when she was twenty-two, she took care of Rhoddo and me. On the day our parents died.’

  Jamie froze in shocked embarrassment. Ceri Lloyd had not been mentioned in any of the reports he had seen. He realised how superficial his knowledge of Sara’s past had been.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

  ‘She was only a young constable then,’ Sara continued. ‘She soothed us, comforted us as well as she could. Even after we’d moved in with our aunt, Ceri would visit, talk to our social worker, and take us out now and then.’

  ‘It’s nice that you had someone special like that,’ Jamie said contritely, ‘and that you’re still close.’

  He lowered his gaze and twirled strands of linguine onto his fork.

  SEVEN

  Mrs Davies’ house was not what Sara had expected. She had imagined a cramped warren of eccentric mementoes, floral storage boxes, and piles of yellowing paper, befitting a widow who had developed a strange cluster of interests and habits. Instead, Irene Davies’ living room was sparsely furnished in a tasteful blend of dusty blues and greens on cream. Delicate porcelain figurines were arranged neatly on glass shelves. A glass-topped coffee table held a bowl of porous stone fruit. The range of charities and causes to which the old woman devoted her time was represented by a series of labelled file boxes, in alphabetical order along a wall. Other than these, the room was uncluttered, and spotless.

  This pleased Sara. Not only did it suggest that Mrs Davies had more sides to her than she had given the older woman credit for, but also that some of them may have been closer to Sara’s own tastes and personality than she might previously have assumed. Perhaps the old woman wasn’t exactly a kindred spirit, but Sara felt badly for having stereotyped her, for caricaturing her in her thoughts.

  ‘I was shocked,’ Mrs Davies said, holding a large bone china cup and saucer on her knees, ‘absolutely shocked. I mean, one couldn’t have called Aled a sweet boy, not by any means – he was rather troubled in fact, and could be awfully sullen – but I was fond of him, deep down. When I heard about his ...’

  She shifted uncomfortably. ‘When I heard what happened, I telephoned his mother, both to pass on my regrets – it was only courteous, I thought – and to suggest some counselling options I thought she might be in need of.’

  She shuffled her velour-slippered feet on the rich wool carpet. A sleeping Chihuahua stretched. ‘She was rather rude to me, as it happens. I put it down to grief.’

  Sara nodded, and took a sip of her Earl Grey tea – the only tea Mrs Davies had that was not herbal. The woman was doing her best to appear composed, but Sara knew that these events had shaken her. ‘What kind of work did Aled do for you, Mrs Davies?’

  ‘Oh, gardening, cleaning, what-have-you.’ She waved her free hand. ‘I prefer to devote my time to causes, and I don’t see why I should push the Dyson around when there are young people needing a pound or two.’ She pursed her thin lips. ‘I didn’t like to hear about the cannabis – I don’t want to think that was where my money was going. I often thought that Aled would benefit from an intensive course of counselling. I only regret now that I didn’t suggest it to him.’

  Mrs Davies fixed Sara with a sharp stare, and said, ‘Now, Sara, I have answered several of your questions, perhaps you can answer one or two of mine. I suspect that your detective has not told me everything about the danger I am in. He refuses to return my telephone calls.’

  ‘He’s very busy,’ Sara said.

  ‘I don’t imagine the police install alarm mats in a woman’s home for no valid reason.’ She plucked at the pleats in her skirt. ‘Why was my name left on Aled’s – well, his body?’

  Although police had been keeping news of the killer’s strange forms of communication from the public, the detective heading the investigation had told Mrs Davies; there was no other way to explain their sudden interest in protecting her. She did not know about the eye in the pyramid symbol, only that her name had been found inscribed on Aled. She had been asked to keep that information quiet, and had done so.

  Now, Sara decided it was safe to tell the woman as much of the truth as she could. ‘We’re working on the theory that he was trying to get revenge against Aled, on your behalf.’

  ‘On my behalf?’ Mrs Davies gasped. ‘What in heaven’s name for?’

  ‘We’re not sure,’ Sara said. ‘I was hoping you might have some idea.’

  Mrs Davies drew in a hesitant breath, and set her teacup down on the carpet. As she did, her hands trembled slightly, and the bone china rattled. ‘I can’t imagine why anyone would kill Aled because of me,’ she said.

  ‘How was your relationship?’ Sara asked. ‘Had he done anything recently to annoy you?’

  Mrs Davies remained si
lent for a time, rocking slightly in her chair. Finally, she spoke in a quiet voice. ‘Well ... I did catch him stealing from me,’ she admitted.

  A surge of something like excitement pulsed through Sara, but she forced herself to remain nonchalant. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘There isn’t much to say,’ Mrs Davies said. ‘I was relaxing in the garden, and came in to find him going through my handbag. He made some excuse and denied stealing anything – but ten pounds had disappeared. Knowing what I know now, I can only assume he took it for drugs.’

  ‘Was this the first time you’d noticed anything missing?’

  She clenched her frail jaw, and raised her eyebrows as if pondering whether to say any more. Sara had never known Irene Davies to resist that temptation. Finally, the woman said, ‘As a matter of fact, I had lost small amounts before, but I’d never connected it to Aled.’

  She paused, then added, ‘Or, if I had, I didn’t have enough proof to say anything. Of course, when I caught him at my handbag, I asked him about all of it. Perhaps I accused him outright, I can’t remember – but, either way, he simply called me a filthy name and ran off. A few minutes later, I realised he still had a key to my house.’

  ‘He kept a key?’

  ‘It was more convenient that way. I’m often out.’

  Sara sat very still, pondering the implications. Finally, she said, ‘Mrs Davies, at the Mental Health meeting you were concerned about a prowler. Did you ever consider it might have been Aled?’

  The woman stiffened, then nodded almost imperceptibly.

  ‘You spoke to Inspector Lloyd that same night,’ Sara continued. ‘Why didn’t you mention your suspicions to her?’

  ‘I didn’t want to get the boy in trouble,’ Mrs Davies replied. ‘I know you think of me as a busybody, Sara, but I don’t enjoy seeing children in trouble with the police.’

  ‘Then why did you report a prowler at all?’

  ‘I wasn’t certain it was Aled. And if it was, I hoped the occasional patrol car might frighten him away.’

  ‘You also started calling his home,’ Sara said, and Mrs Davies appeared startled that she possessed this intelligence. ‘You left messages on his mother’s answering machine.’

  ‘Rather a few, I’m afraid,’ the old woman admitted with a sigh. ‘I wanted my key back. Wouldn’t you have?’

  Sara could imagine the tone of the messages, and was not surprised that Aled’s mother did not want her condolences now.

  ‘What could I have done differently?’ the old woman said plaintively, spreading her hands. ‘Would Aled be alive today if I’d told Inspector Lloyd the truth? Or if I’d just let him steal my money?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Davies,’ Sara said. ‘Either way, this is not your fault.’

  Mrs Davies arched her eyebrows, as if she considered the jury still to be out on that issue. When she spoke again, her voice was melancholy. ‘I’ve lived in this town a long time,’ she said. ‘I can remember the tragedy of your parents’ deaths. When you applied for the job at the Task Force and someone told me who you were, I was surprised that you would want to come back here. Recently, I was even more shocked to find you’d got yourself involved in this murder investigation.’

  She shook her head and looked at Sara with something like reproach. ‘How can you stand it?’ she asked.

  ‘Mrs Davies,’ Sara said briskly, ‘at the moment, we don’t know who the killer is ... but clearly, he knows you. It’s possible the two of you have even met. Can you think of anyone – any unusual person – you have been in contact with recently?’

  Irene Davies smiled thinly and swept a bony hand over the row of file boxes, each representing a charity or special interest group. ‘Sara, look at what I do with my time,’ she said. ‘How can I help meeting strange people?’

  Sara pulled away from the house, a knot of tension in her stomach. It was the way she always felt after dealing with Irene Davies. Her driving was less accomplished than usual in the stop-go Saturday traffic, starting with lurches and stopping with jerks. When her mobile rang, she punched the car’s Bluetooth button so hard she nearly cracked the screen. ‘Yes, hello,’ she snapped.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Jamie chuckled. ‘You’ve just interviewed Mrs Davies.’

  ‘Oh, hi,’ she said awkwardly. They had not spoken since yesterday’s uncomfortable lunch. ‘Mrs Davies isn’t so bad.’

  ‘Did it go well?’

  ‘I found out some things,’ Sara replied, taking strength from her official role of psychologist. ‘Aled Morgan had been stealing from her. And he had a key to her house.’

  ‘Interesting. Were you planning to talk to Carol Elliott today?’

  Sara confirmed that she had an appointment at the Spar where Miss Elliott worked.

  ‘Good,’ Jamie replied briskly. ‘Let’s meet there in five minutes.’

  ‘You want to come?’

  ‘I need to. Your theories about her connection with Williams might just turn out to be more accurate than I thought.’

  A prickle of anticipation did away with Sara’s frustration. ‘What have you learned?’

  ‘Not over a mobile,’ Jamie said. ‘I’ll see you outside the shop.’

  When Sara got to the front of the shop, Jamie was waiting. She looked at him eagerly, and he smiled grimly. ‘The late Mr Williams,’ he said crisply, ‘was a rapist.’

  ‘What?’

  He nodded and brushed a lock of copper hair from his eyes. ‘Convicted in Wolverhampton, when he was sixteen, for sexually assaulting an ex-classmate. Four years later, he was questioned for two other assaults in Birmingham, but never prosecuted. Since then, he hasn’t stayed in one location for very long.’

  Sara stared at him. ‘Why didn’t you know this before?’

  ‘We didn’t find any identification at the scene, so the only details we had were the ones he had supplied to his employers.’

  ‘Why does that matter?’

  ‘He had listed his year of birth as 1989, when actually, it was 1991.’

  Sara blinked. ‘And?’

  ‘I suppose he was afraid the construction company would ask the police to run a check on him,’ Jamie continued. ‘Under the Rehabilitation of Offenders Act, his conviction would become spent after ten years, and they wouldn’t have had to know about it – but his rehabilitation period still had two years to run.’

  Sara shook her head in puzzlement. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not following you. Obviously he didn’t want to risk his employment, but what has the year he was born got to do with it?’

  ‘Without fingerprints, a police search is conducted by name and birth date. With inaccurate data – and that could simply be the wrong year of birth – the search will turn up no convictions.’

  ‘That’s incredible!’ Sara gasped.

  Jamie raised his hands in helpless agreement. ‘It wouldn’t protect anyone from a major investigation – but even then, it might slow us down,’ he said.

  ‘So you’re agreeing with what I said before? That Mr Williams may have raped Miss Elliott?’

  ‘Or maybe tried to. We know he patronised this shop.’

  Through the window, Sara could see Carol Elliott sitting at the till, laughing with a male customer.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ Jamie said.

  When Jamie and Sara entered the shop, the young customer skulked away, and began looking randomly at bags of flour and packs of Bisto. He was dressed in cut-off jeans, a cheap padded jacket, and a backwards cricket cap. Jamie introduced himself and Sara to Miss Elliott, then turned and flashed his badge at her only customer, asking him to make his purchases quickly and leave. The shop, he said, would be closing for a few minutes.

  ‘Er – he’s not a customer, actually,’ Carol said. ‘He’s my boyfriend, Brett. I asked him to be here.’

  The spotty young lad looked up, eyes dull with defiance.

  ‘It would be better if we could talk alone,’ Sara said quietly. ‘Our questions might be a bit personal.’

  ‘S’o
kay,’ the lad called from the corner of the shop. ‘S’not embarrassed ’round me.’ He had a Mancunian accent.

  Jamie turned to Carol and stared questioningly. She licked her lips nervously. ‘I’d rather he stayed, please.’

  Jamie shot a glance at Sara, his green eyes shining with annoyance. Sara shrugged.

  ‘Okay,’ he said at length. He withdrew a notebook and pen from his pocket and tore a sheet from the back. On it he wrote Back in 15 Minutes, and stuck it to the door. ‘Can you lock this?’ he asked.

  The girl secured the door and led them out the back entrance, to a small paved area littered with boxes and wooden skips. They perched where they could, and Brett lit a cigarette.

  ‘Do you remember when you last spoke to the detective constable? He showed you a picture of Mr Williams.’ He held out the photograph. ‘Please look at it again.’

  Carol glanced at it, and Brett leaned over her shoulder to study it as well, smoke leaking from his slack lips.

  ‘You told the constable that this man would come in occasionally for cigarettes, is that correct?’

  She nodded nervously. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you don’t recall ever seeing him outside this shop?’

  ‘No.’

  Jamie hesitated, and looked warily at both Carol and her boyfriend before saying, ‘We have reasons to believe that this gentleman might have hurt women in the past ...’

  He left the sentence dangling, hoping Carol might volunteer information, but she just stared at the concrete ground.

  ‘Hang on,’ interjected Brett, ‘wotcha mean hurt?’

  Jamie’s eyes scanned the bowed brick walls that surrounded the patio. They were old, chipped, in bad need of re-pointing, and looked barely stable enough to support the loops of rusty barbed wire that topped them. As tactfully as he could, Jamie explained about Mr Williams’ juvenile conviction for rape. As he spoke, Carol’s eyes widened.

  ‘Now, we’re not suggesting that Mr Williams was responsible for any local crimes,’ Jamie concluded reassuringly, ‘but if he was – if he ever tried to hurt anyone around here – we need to know that.’