Chapter 33 #2
Henley ended the call as the normality of home life continued around her.
She could hear Rob flicking through TV channels and Luna licking the floor near the dishwasher.
The sounds of her home should have been a comfort to Henley, but she couldn’t settle.
Linh’s words swam in her head. She understood why Linh didn’t envy her.
This case was more than just a person committing murder.
The scalping was vengeful and purposeful, but it also felt like an offering.
Whoever wielded the knife wanted not only to punish but also to please someone.
Henley shuddered. Whoever killed Fox-Carnell, Hall and attempted to kill Tabitha Ashcroft was trying to prove themselves, which meant that someone else was pulling the strings.
‘Shall we do one more episode?’ Rob asked Henley as the credits rolled.
‘One more then bed,’ Henley nodded, even though she knew she would probably spend half the night wide awake. The next episode had just begun when Henley’s phone rang again. Pellacia’s name appeared on the screen, and she steadied herself for the worse.
‘It’s work,’ she said. ‘I’ll take it upstairs.’
Rob sighed and gently shifted Henley’s legs off his lap. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
Henley accepted the call and went into the spare room. ‘What’s happened?’ she asked.
‘Nothing has happened,’ said Pellacia. ‘This isn’t about the case.’
‘Why are you calling me if this—’
‘I didn’t like how I left things with you,’ Pellacia said hurriedly. ‘I said things I had no right to say.’
‘You told me that I was selfish and that you’d find someone else to do my job.’
‘I was out of line. I’m sorry.’
Henley sat down on the bed and rubbed her temple. ‘You’re doing my head in.’
Pellacia laughed. ‘I’m doing your head in. Imagine what you’re doing to me?’
‘Stephen.’
‘I didn’t mean … look, I didn’t call to talk about us, well at least, not like that. I just want to know why?’
‘Why what?’ Henley asked as anxiety clawed at her chest. She opened the window and let the cold October air into the small room.
‘Why you didn’t come to me about Rhimes. Why you chose to do this on your own.’
‘I don’t need you to carry me, Stephen.’
‘It’s not about carrying you, it’s about being by your side, Anj. This thing that Eloise asked you to do, it doesn’t just affect you.’
‘I know that.’
‘So why not tell me? Why not let me in?’
‘Eloise came to me,’ Henley said with exhaustion. She didn’t have the energy to fight.
‘This has nothing to do with Eloise, not really. You’re shutting me out. Building walls. That’s not you, Anj. That’s not us.’
Henley focused on the peeling wallpaper.
‘You talk about me shutting you out, but what about you?’ she asked.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about Copeland joining—’
‘That’s different and you know it,’ Pellacia snapped.
‘No, it’s not. We’ve both been keeping things to ourselves. Not being honest with each other.’
‘When have I ever not been honest with you?’
‘I haven’t got time for this. Rob is—’
Henley stopped as Pellacia tutted loudly with disapproval.
‘You shouldn’t have called,’ Henley said.
‘I just want you to talk to me,’ Pellacia’s tone softened. ‘Let me know where your head is at with this Rhimes thing. You shouldn’t – no, you don’t have to do this on your own.’
‘Was there anything else?’ Henley asked stubbornly. She closed the window and made her way downstairs.
‘Bloody hell. Don’t treat me like the—’
‘Is there anything else?’ she repeated.
‘It’s funny,’ Pellacia said sadly. ‘I never thought that Rhimes would be the one who would actually break us.’
Henley opened her mouth to respond but Pellacia had already ended the call.
Ramouter leaned back and rubbed at his eyes.
The match between West Bromwich and Derby was on TV but he wasn’t paying attention.
He’d spent the last two hours balancing his MacBook on his lap whilst he stared at CCTV footage of the night the Ashcrofts had been assaulted.
‘I hate this case,’ he said to himself as the Facetime notification appeared in the corner of his screen and he gratefully minimised the video player.
‘You finally picked up,’ said Michelle, her face only half filling the screen. ‘The last time I heard from you was on Sunday night.’
‘I am so sorry, babe,’ said Ramouter, repositioning his laptop so that his wife didn’t see the chaos. Empty takeaway containers he hadn’t cleared from the table and clothes that had been removed from the dryer but dumped on the sofa. ‘There’s a lot going on.’
Michelle straightened her screen. ‘So, you can’t call your wife?’
Ramouter caught sight of the outside heater and Moroccan lanterns in the background and saw that Michelle was enveloped in a cream throw. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘In the garden. The kids are running around as though they’re possessed and they’re doing my head in. At this point I wouldn’t mind forgetting them.’
‘Oh my god, Michelle,’ Ramouter groaned as his wife laughed.
It was one of the things he’d always loved about her – her wry sense of humour and an ability not to take life too seriously as opposed to him.
He’d been built to search for the cracks in the foundation and the holes in the roof.
Early onset dementia had taken away her smile and humour for a year, but with the help of therapy and medication, Michelle’s light – although slightly dimmer – had returned.
‘How’s Ethan doing?’
‘He’s champion,’ said Michelle, drinking her tea. ‘He’s like a returning war hero. I would get him for you but—’
‘Leave him be. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. So, how are you doing?’
‘I’m good. I’ll be glad to come home to you though. It’s nice being up here but my mother is suffocating. I’m surprised she’s not here keeping watch.’
‘That’s because she loves you.’
‘I know. So, tell me why didn’t you pick up when I called yesterday? Were you out drinking with your crew on a school night?’ Michelle asked with a smirk.
Ramouter looked away, not wanting to admit to his wife that he had been out drinking but with only one member of his team: DC Copeland. ‘You know what it’s like. You go for one and that turns into a few.’
‘And the next thing you know you’re forgetting to call your wife.’
‘Aye, aye. I’ll do better.’
‘Make sure you do,’ said Michelle. ‘I need to go. That son of yours should be in bed.’
‘I promise I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘I’ll hold you to that. And, Salim?’
‘What is it, babe?’
‘Make sure you put the washing away.’
‘How did you even—’
Michelle laughed. ‘It’s my superpower. Love you. Night.’
Ramouter shook his head and laughed as the call ended.
His wife never ceased to amaze him. ‘Oh, bollocks,’ he said when he saw that West Bromwich had conceded a goal.
Also, on the sofa were printouts of Laurence Durant’s previous convictions.
He’d been arrested for threatening words and behaviour on the day that his wife’s killer walked out of court but it hadn’t risked his teaching career as the CPS had taken no further action against him.
‘It can’t just be you,’ Ramouter muttered as he opened the video player again and pressed play.
It was said that London was the most surveilled city in the world but that didn’t mean there was a CCTV camera on every street, and video doorbells, although helpful, were limited in their view.
The CCTV that Ramouter had been looking at was from Lordship Lane leading towards Cullen Lane.
Even if Durant was involved, Ramouter couldn’t believe that this was a grieving man acting alone.
Thirty minutes later, Ramouter felt his eyelids droop, as he continued watching the passing traffic, and the referee blew the whistle on the game. West Bromwich Albion had lost 3-1.
‘No, no way,’ said Ramouter as he sat up, the empty beer bottle rolling onto the floor. He paused the footage and rewound it. He watched again, paused the video, watched it again. Paused, made a screenshot and texted it to Henley. The phone rang almost immediately.
‘Is that what I think it is?’ Henley asked.
‘That’s Laurence Durant’s car on Lordship Lane twelve minutes after Graham Ashcroft was hit,’ said Ramouter.
‘That’s good enough me,’ said Henley. ‘We’ll arrest him first thing.’