Chapter 18 #2
‘Did you ever ask Jamie outright if he was seeing someone else?’ Fraser is blunter than Lauren would have been, but she’d been about to ask Nadeeka the same question.
Why hadn’t the pair of them just talked to each other?
All this second-guessing, all the secrets .
. . Lauren couldn’t be doing with it. When she wants to know how Fraser’s feeling or what he’s up to, she asks him. Relationships aren’t rocket science.
‘I asked if he still felt the same about me, and he said yes.’ Nadeeka inhales sharply, then bites on her top lip, steadying herself. ‘He said he loved me more than he’d ever loved anyone in the world, and then he said he was sorry.’
‘Sorry?’ Fraser says. ‘What for?’
‘That’s all he said. I’m so sorry. For making me worry, I thought, but now . . .’ She stops, and the pain she’s experiencing is almost tangible.
Lauren puts a hand on Nadeeka’s arm. What a nightmare to live through. If Jamie really did target her specifically as part of a sick game or fetish, the man was a monster. How must it feel for Nadeeka to realize that? To know she exposed her kids to it?
‘We should get more of an insight if we’re able to fully access Jamie’s cloud accounts,’ Fraser says. ‘Find out what websites he was visiting, the accounts he was following on social media. See who he was in contact with. We need to try to get inside his head.’
They do, thinks Lauren, although she doesn’t relish the prospect. The more they learn about Jamie Golding, the less she wants to know.
After Lauren and Fraser leave Cedar Walk, they make their way towards breeze.echo.silent, the what3words location of the village hall referenced in the messages retrieved from Jamie’s phone.
Bahnaz had left the office immediately after yesterday’s briefing to collect her children from the childminder, but she hadn’t stopped work; an update had been waiting in Lauren’s inbox this morning.
Beacon Lodge doesn’t exist, Bahnaz had written.
I spoke to the Grand Lodge Official, who said each chapter meets in their own lodge – they don’t use external venues.
Whatever group Jamie was involved in, it wasn’t the Freemasons.
‘They definitely told me they were Freemasons.’ Susan Belter is chair of Neaton village hall committee. She looks up from the leather-bound appointment diary in her hand. ‘I wrote it down. There was a flood at their lodge, apparently, so they needed to meet somewhere else.’
‘How many of them were there?’ Fraser’s voice echoes in the empty hall.
‘I wouldn’t know, I’m afraid. They booked by phone, and I gave them the code for the key safe. I have to say, they left it absolutely spotless.’
Of course they did, thinks Lauren, who isn’t holding out any hope of useful forensics from any of the venues they’ve uncovered. ‘How did they pay?’
‘We always ask for cash. They left the money in the teapot, as we’d agreed.’
‘Do you still have it?’ Whoever handled it might have worn gloves, Lauren knows, but it’s worth a shot. If they could find just a single speck of DNA . . .
‘Oh, gosh, no. I paid it into the bank the very next morning.’
Lauren exchanges a glance with Fraser, who is running a finger over a windowsill like an aunt checking for dust. Just their luck: criminals who clean up after themselves, and ultra--organized civilians.
‘I like to keep on top of things,’ Susan says. ‘I bank the cash, shred the card details, that sort of thing.’
‘Card details?’ Lauren snaps her gaze back to Susan. ‘You said you always ask for cash.’
‘We do, but if someone were to damage the sound system, or break the freezer, it would cost hundreds.’ Susan straightens the blind on the window next to her.
‘So I take a card number, reassure them it’s just as security – payment won’t be taken on the card – and then, if all’s well, I destroy the details. ’
‘Will the bits of paper still be in your shredder?’ Even as Lauren asks, she knows it’s a hopeless line of enquiry.
What are they going to do: piece together every possible combination of numbers until they get a credit card number which may or may not be connected to Jamie’s murder?
She’s all for leaving no stone unturned, but there are limits . . .
‘No, I put them in the compost. But if you need the details, wouldn’t it be easier to look at the village hall bank account?’
‘But you don’t take payment by card,’ Lauren says, ‘so . . .’
‘The bank takes a holding charge. A pound, I think it is. Then they refund it straight away. To ensure the card is valid, I suppose.’ While Susan’s been talking, she’s been looking at her phone, and now she shows Lauren her banking app. ‘Here it is.’
There it is. One pound out and one back in, against the last four digits of a debit card number.
Lauren writes them down. ‘It’s really important we trace the owner of this card. Would you be willing to give authorization for your bank to share details with our financial investigation unit?’
They might find out it’s another cloned or stolen card, but what if it’s not? What if the person who booked the hall gave his own card details, because he believed Susan Belter wouldn’t actually be using it?
‘Of course, if it will help. I’m sorry I can’t give you a description of him.’
Fraser’s phone rings and he moves away to answer it.
‘We keep talking about installing cameras,’ Susan says, ‘but there are always so many other demands on our budget.’
‘Where?’ Fraser says, and Lauren turns to look at him. He’s listening intently, his face taut. Alert.
‘What’s happened?’ she mouths, but he shakes his head, his eyes flicking to Susan in explanation. He speaks to the person on the other end of the line – ‘We’re on our way’ – then he ends the call.
Susan is still talking. ‘The chap from the Freemasons said it wasn’t a problem, our not having CCTV.’
I bet he did, Lauren thinks, as she follows Fraser towards the exit.
‘Thanks for your time, Mrs Belter.’ She wonders how many village halls and pubs have been scoped out by this group Jamie was involved in, and how many have been ruled out because they were overlooked or had cameras, or didn’t take cash.
‘Who was that?’ she asks Fraser, once they’re safely out of earshot.
‘Bahnaz.’ Fraser strides towards the car. ‘They’ve found Jamie Golding’s body.’