Death Sentence Page 4

  ‘J … J … Jack,’ Jack hiccupped a reply.

  ‘Well, Jack, that wasn’t a very nice thing to do, was it? Calling other people spiteful names?’ The man scooped Jack up into his arms and headed back towards the office.

  Miss Cummings has just offered to carry Jack, but the man shook his head. Emily kept up her running commentary. I expect he thought he’d be too heavy for her. He’s a nice man. Shame he’s going to take Jack home instead of us, isn’t it?

  I don’t care, Ashley said silently. Squeezing her eyes closed, she tried hard to shut Emily out, and Jack, who was snottily declaring, ‘She pushed me!’

  Oh, yes you do. Emily selected a wisp of her hair, smoothed it through her fingers, and then popped it in her mouth. He’s taking him inside now.

  Matthew manoeuvred Jack through the patio doors the care home Manager held open for them.

  ‘This way is probably the quickest route to the sick room.’ She headed across the office to the door adjoining the hall. ‘We’ll take him straight up, if you don’t mind?’

  ‘No problem,’ Matthew said, offering Jack a reassuring smile as he followed her, though he was obviously a bully and a liar. Feeling a touch guilty, condemning the boy, who’d probably had a rough start in life, he carried him up to the sick room. Then, double-checking his injuries weren’t as life-threatening as his sobs might have conveyed, he left him in the care of Miss Cummings to go back down to the office, where Rebecca waited.

  She was still watching Ashley, obviously quite taken, Matthew guessed, going back into the room.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Rebecca glanced at him from where she stood at the window.

  ‘He’ll have a headache, I’m guessing, but he’ll live,’ Matthew assured her, walking across to join her.

  Rebecca wrapped her arms about herself. Matthew noticed she was shivering despite the unusual warmth of the spring evening. Nervous, he guessed, wondering whether things would work out.

  ‘Penny for them?’ he asked, wrapping his own arms around her and pulling her close.

  Rebecca breathed out a sigh and relaxed into him. ‘She’s lonely,’ she said, nodding towards Ashley.

  Matthew brushed his cheek softly against hers, as he observed Ashley over Rebecca’s shoulder. ‘She obviously has difficulty making friends.’

  Rebecca twisted to glance up at him. ‘Can you blame her, if the other children are that horrible to her? That little bully was absolutely vile.’

  ‘No,’ Matthew contemplated. He’d done exactly the same as a kid, withdrawn on the receiving end of bullying. Picturing the snarling youth who’d repeatedly put the boot in—Sullivan was a vicious bastard even then—Matthew drew in a short breath. He’d had his first asthma attack around the time the bullying started. And hadn’t Sullivan mercilessly used that to his advantage? Matthew had been breathless, defenceless, bewildered, hopelessly trying to work out why Sullivan and his brainless minions had wanted to make his life a living hell. He was wiser now, aware of how a coward’s mind worked. They honed in on their victims, people who were weaker, different, showing off their prowess to shore up their own pathetic self-image. The victim’s already negative self-image is validated, their self-esteem dwindles further, the child withdraws … Is that what Kristen meant by different, he wondered?

  Rebecca leaned closer into him. ‘She’s probably just shy. I was at her age. A lot of children are.’

  ‘Yes, but …’ Again Matthew was hesitant, for Becky’s sake. For Ashley’s too. Yes, they were aware of the huge commitment taking on a child would be. How could they not be? Were they really qualified to offer Ashley all the help she might need, though? ‘What if she has real socialisation problems, Becky? What then?’

  Rebecca turned to face him. ‘Then we help her. Isn’t that what this is all about?’

  Matthew nodded. ‘I suppose. I’d hate to see her spend the rest of her childhood in care, but … are you sure, Becky? It’s asking an awful lot of you. She’s not your responsibility, after all.’

  Rebecca thought about it. ‘No,’ she conceded, ‘but then aren’t responsibilities supposed to be shared in a marriage? Let’s at least get to know her. That’s what the introductory period is for, isn’t it?’

  Matthew debated. By the nature of his work, the lion’s share of the responsibility he couldn’t help thinking, would fall on Becky. ‘But what if it doesn’t work out, Becks? If we can’t be the kind of parents a vulnerable teenage girl needs?’

  ‘Then we’ll be faced with the same problems all parents have,’ Rebecca pointed out. ‘Unlike all parents though, at least we’ll have access to expert help if we need it.’

  Matthew looked her over, amazed, not for the first time, by her optimism. How he ever got lucky enough to meet a woman he loved so completely, a woman who evidently still loved him, despite all that had happened and his too many flaws, he would never know. ‘You’re a pretty special person, Mrs Adams,’ he said huskily, ‘do you know that?’

  ‘Course I am.’ Rebecca laughed, stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on his nose.

  Matthew’s mouth curved into a smile. Unable to resist, he pulled her closer and kissed her, possibly more thoroughly than he should, given where they were. They were healing, Matthew couldn’t help but offer up a small prayer of gratitude for that. They would never be whole again, but they were finding a way forward together, rather than isolated in grief. Knowing he’d reached a place where he couldn’t see any way forward, Matthew considered it a small miracle, that miracle being Becky, whose loss had been greater than anyone should have to bear. Maybe taking Ashley was meant to be, after all.

  ‘Shall we?’ he asked, softly.

  ‘Yes, let’s.’ Rebecca nodded determinedly and turned back to the window. ‘Do I look okay?’ she asked him, smoothed her top down over her jeans and checked her hair: fabulous, wild, auburn hair streaked gold, which she normally wore tumbling down her back, but which she’d now wrestled into a top-knot. Her serious look Becky called it, as if he would ever not take her seriously.

  ‘You look fantastic,’ Matthew assured her, giving her shoulders a squeeze, before reaching past her for the door.

  ‘Flatterer.’ Rebecca smiled, then, bracing herself, she stepped out into the grounds. ‘Let’s do this,’ she said quietly, clasping Matthew’s hand as they walked towards Ashley.

  Yep, he was definitely a lucky man. Matthew squeezed her small hand in his.

  ‘Hey there. Ashley, isn’t it?’ Rebecca called, as they neared her. ‘How are you doing?’

  She offered her a reassuring smile as the girl glanced guardedly up.

  ‘OK.’ Ashley shrugged and glanced back down.

  Rebecca hesitated, and then tried again. ‘That’s pretty.’ She indicated the trail of daisies Ashley was stringing together, at which the girl dropped her gaze further. Concerned, Rebecca glanced at Matthew. She didn’t want to push her or crowd her, but she so wanted this to go well.

  She was wondering what on earth to say next when Matthew took a step forward.

  ‘It’s a daisy chain. Isn’t that right, Ashley?’

  The girl’s eyes flicked interestedly towards his.

  ‘Might have been a bit longer if that little sod hadn’t snatched it. I’m Matthew,’ he went on quickly, as Ashley’s mouth twitched into the tiniest of smiles. ‘Do you remember me, Ashley?’

  The girl shook her head, looking back and forth between them uncertainly.

  ‘Your mum’s brother,’ Matthew clarified, looking briefly troubled at the mention of his sister, but hiding it well. ‘And this gorgeous lady here is my wife, Becky.’

  Rebecca shook her head, and then demonstratively rolled her eyes. ‘He’s very good at flattery, Ashley, especially when he wants something. Watch out for that.’

  Matthew splayed his hands. ‘Would I lie?’ He looked between Rebecca and Ashley, his expression now a picture of innocence.

  Ashley’s smile widened and Rebecca felt elate
d and saddened all at once. Matthew was a natural with children. She watched him, as he crouched down to Ashley’s level, talking quietly to her, his expression unintimidating, his body-language calm and relaxed. He was generally calm, thinking things through before he reacted. There were times, especially after losing Lily, when he was tense and distracted, definitely moody. He always apologised, though, assuring her his moodiness was nothing to do with her. He had his weaknesses, a tendency in the past to reach for alcohol in his darkest moments, but he was a good man. A caring man. It was there now, Rebecca could see it, the intensity in his eyes, the compassion, as he studied this girl who looked so utterly lost.

  Matthew caught her watching him and smiled uncertainly. Rebecca offered him an encouraging smile back and nodded him on. Taking a breath, Matthew turned his attention back to Ashley.

  ‘Rebecca and I have something to ask you, Ashley. You don’t have to answer now, if you don’t want to. And if you want to talk it over with Miss Cummings first, that’s fine, but we wondered if you’d like to come and stay with us?’

  Ashley’s gaze dropped immediately back down.

  Glancing again at Rebecca, Matthew paused, and then went on carefully. ‘Maybe stay always, if we all get along and you like it there.’

  Rebecca closed her eyes, pride flooding through her. She loved this man, absolutely. She so wished he could learn to love himself a little more. That he could trust that she did love him, that he could tell her properly that he loved her. She knew he did, in her heart. His eyes—where lately so many shadows danced—didn’t lie. Rebecca could see his love for her there. She felt it when they’d found each other again, when they’d made love, tentatively at first, and then more passionately, tasting each other, touching each other to the very core. She hadn’t asked him why he couldn’t speak the words he once so easily did, but her counsellor had confirmed what she’d feared, that Matthew might be frightened of saying it out loud, perhaps because he’d lost too many people he’d loved. Or perhaps because he didn’t think he was worthy of being loved.

  Matthew waited a second, and then, ‘What do you think, Ashley?’

  Ashley didn’t look up.

  ‘Ashley?’ Matthew hesitated, and then reached out to gently brush her hair from her face. ‘Hey, it’s okay,’ he said softly, noting the slow tears plopping down her cheeks. ‘You don’t have to do anything, or say anything you don’t want to.’

  Ashley nodded and sniffled, and eventually looked at him.

  ‘I thought you liked Jack,’ she said, her voice so small it broke Rebecca’s heart. ‘I thought you’d take him. I …’

  Matthew swallowed visibly, as she trailed off. ‘What, and leave a beautiful girl like you sitting here all alone?’

  Dragging a hand under her nose, Ashley blinked at him.

  ‘Not a chance. My wife would kill me.’ Matthew got to his feet, offered Ashley his hand and gave her a mischievous wink.

  Ashley cocked her head to one side, and then, amazingly, she laughed, only fleetingly, but it was definitely a laugh. Cautiously she searched Matthew’s face and then, her eyes less guarded, she reached out, took Matthew’s hand, got to her feet, and that was it. The deal was struck. Matthew would never turn back now. It simply wasn’t in his nature to let that girl down, let anyone down. Rebecca knew it. And that, along with the fact that he wasn’t half bad-looking, was the main reason she loved him: because he had a heart of pure gold. ‘He cooks too,’ she whispered one of his other attributes in Ashley’s ear, as they headed towards the office.

  Ashley looked at her interestedly. ‘What? Proper food?’

  ‘Yup. Takes the lid off the box and everything,’ Rebecca assured her.

  ‘I heard that,’ Matthew said, wearing his serious face, which actually wasn’t that scary.

  ‘And he can find the oven. Hasn’t quite learned how to turn it on yet, but …’

  ‘Typical.’ Matthew rolled his eyes skywards. ‘They’re ganging up on me already.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘Anything?’ Matthew asked, praying that the scrapings from the underside of Brianna’s fingernails might have produced something, blood not belonging to the victim, a particle of skin. Anything.

  Glancing apologetically over her mask, Nicky shook her head.

  Matthew blew out a frustrated sigh, anger mounting inside him. How? Surely there had to be something?

  ‘Nothing on the clothes?’ he asked, hoping there might be something there, a hair, a fibre of clothing, body fluids.

  ‘Nothing substantial,’ the pathologist sighed in turn, probably as frustrated as he felt.

  ‘Was she’s sexually assaulted?’ Matthew asked, a taut band of tension tightening between his temples.

  ‘There’s not much in the way of defensive wounding, but—’

  ‘Because she was probably too shit-scared to defend herself,’ Matthew cut in furiously.

  Nicky’s eyes flicked worriedly to his. ‘She did have sexual intercourse,’ she went on, as Matthew tugged agitatedly as his shirt collar. ‘There’s also evidence of bruising so, at this stage I would say there’s a high probability of rape, yes.’

  Matthew nodded slowly. Counting silently in an attempt to quell his temper, he fixed his gaze on a skeletal guide on the opposite wall. ‘No body fluids, I take it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Nicky confirmed what he’d already guessed.

  Matthew closed his eyes, and swallowed hard. ‘Bastard,’ he uttered. ‘Is the cause of death confirmed?’ he asked, his jaw clenching.

  ‘Definitely asphyxiation.’ Nicky indicated the dark brown ligature marks around the girl’s neck. ‘With a tie probably.’

  ‘No DNA there then either?’ Matthew sighed. He wondered why he’d bothered harbouring the hope that that there might have be a sample of skin left behind.

  ‘Sorry.’ Nicky shrugged, as if that too were a foregone conclusion. Unbelievable. Matthew shook his head incredulously. He was beginning to wonder if Sullivan hadn’t worn the same protective clothing the SOCOs wore. If it was Sullivan, which Matthew’s every instinct was screaming at him it was. If he hadn’t attended to business while his minions kept lookout, he’d have had one of them do it for him. And they had nothing to go on? Matthew struggled to comprehend it. Not even a footprint? The SOCOs were still on it, meticulously combing the area for signs of trace evidence, but short of coming up with a conveniently discarded spliff end with Sullivan’s prints and saliva on it, they had absolutely nil.

  ‘Time of death?’ despondently, he asked for confirmation there, too. As if it would make any difference. Sullivan would have a cast-iron alibi whatever time it was.

  ‘Judging by rigor and postmortem hypostasis,’ Nicky glanced at her notes, ‘almost certainly two a.m. or thereabouts.’

  Sighing again, heavily, Matthew nodded his thanks and left Nicky to finish her job, while he went off to establish Sullivan’s whereabouts at two a.m. No doubt he’ll have been tucked up in bed with his wife, which, of course, his wife would confirm, claiming she went to the bathroom at precisely one minute past two, noticing the time on the digital alarm clock, as she did. God, he could use a drink. Checking his watch, Matthew decided that, however soothing to the nerves it might be, a double brandy at four o’clock in the afternoon wasn’t such a good idea. How, he considered, as he made his way to his car, did people like Sullivan ever sleep with their conscience?

  ****

  Patrick Sullivan pressed his hand to the back of the girl’s neck, holding her down. Finishing the business he’d come to attend to, he released her, sorted himself out, and zipped up.

  ‘See how easy it is, Natalie?’ he enquired, almost pleasantly.

  Choking back a sob, Natalie got shakily to her feet, wiped her hand under her nose and tugged her skirt down, attempting to make herself decent.

  She’d be hard pushed to do that. Patrick noted the ladder up the back of the hold-up stockings she was wearing and her scuffed heels, which di
d nothing for him. Did the girl not realise they were supposed to be an adornment to her legs, a turn-on? How were they going to do that when they looked as if they belonged in the bloody charity shop? Sighing despairingly, he headed to the bathroom.

  ‘You have rent to pay, sweetheart,’ he called back, checking his nose for stray hairs as he washed his hands. ‘Now get your act together and get your arse out there.’

  ‘But Patrick …’ the girl implored tearfully.

  Patrick’s sigh was agitated now. Shaking his hands dry, he came back into the lounge area of the apartment.

  ‘But what?’ he asked impatiently.

  Natalie blinked at him beseechingly. ‘I still don’t feel well, Pat. I …’ Noting his uncompromising expression, she trailed off, biting worriedly down on her bottom lip.

  ‘Mr Sullivan,’ Patrick corrected her stonily.

  Shrinking back, Natalie nodded hurriedly and glanced down.

  ‘You’ve had an abortion,’ Patrick informed her impassively. ‘Not given birth to bleeding triplets. And that was weeks ago. Now sort yourself out.’

  The girl nodded again, not too keen, Patrick noted.

  He was getting seriously annoyed now, wasting valuable time when he had more pressing things to attend to at the club, the guy whose drugs consignment had gone astray, for one, which was enough aggro for one day.

  ‘Are you hearing me, Natalie?’ He walked across to her and clutched her face in his hand, his fingers digging hard into her cheeks.

  Patrick noted Natalie’s puckered-up mouth, as she attempted a more fervent nod, and curled a lip. Like a bloody sow’s arse, he thought wearily. How old was she now? Nineteen? Twenty, he made the calculation, and already well on the way to being past it.

  ‘Tonight, Natalie,’ he said. Then, loosening his hold, he turned away to retrieve his cashmere overcoat, which he’d folded carefully over the back of the sofa.

  ‘And smarten yourself up. That’s my reputation on the line out there. Don’t ever forget it.’

  Looking her derisorily up and down, he fed his arm leisurely into his coat, pulled it on, and sauntered across to the mirror to check his reflection. Not bad, Patrick, my old son, he assured himself, admiring his dark good looks as he straightened his tie and smoothed down his hair, which was still all his own. Thank God, he thought, checking his shirt cuffs were aligned correctly with his coat sleeves. He’d been dreading starting to lose it at thirty like his old man had. Patrick worked hard at maintaining his image, but he drew the line at wearing a bleeding falsie. The old man looked like a twat. One of these days, Patrick would take great pleasure in telling him that.