Fire Damage (A Jessie Flynn Investigation, Book 1) (17 page)

Marilyn had dressed in a pair of black jeans, torn at the knee, so faded now that they were a mottled shade of the same grey as the clouds massed above him. On top, he wore a black hooded Def Leppard sweatshirt that was stretched in all the wrong places, and his battered black leather biker. He knew that he looked like Ronnie Wood on an off-day. But there was something in his DNA, a dogged bloody-mindedness, he realized, when his rational brain was engaged that he should have grown out of in his teens that had made him put on his grottiest clothes, purely because they were Army, spit-shined within an inch of their lives and then some.

The young military policeman facing him had to be one of the worst he’d met: little more than mid-twenties but with an attitude befitting someone twice his age, and a broomstick shoved so far up his arse, Marilyn fancied he would see the top of it nestling behind his tongue if he opened his mouth to speak.

Smiling, Marilyn held out his hand. ‘Bobby Simmons.’

The lieutenant didn’t return his handshake.

‘
Detective Inspector
Bobby Simmons, Surrey and Sussex Major Crimes.’

He caught the warning look that DS Workman cast him, ignored it.

The lieutenant waited a beat before shaking his hand. ‘Lieutenant Edward – Ed – Gold. I’m running this crime scene.’

We’ll see about that,
Marilyn thought. He didn’t say it. Wasn’t about to give Gold the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him this early in the game.

The female victim was clearly a civilian. Her clothes, her age, her shape for God’s sake, all attested to that fact. Not to mention the few words her friend had told the uniformed officers who had answered the 999 call, before she was shunted into the ambulance and taken to Royal Surrey County Hospital, where she was currently under sedation, being treated for shock.

The body of the murdered woman was on military ground – he was happy to concede that fact – lying in the Sandhurst scrub, tight up against the boundary fence. There was a torn piece of black material caught on a nail head sticking out from the fence, matching a missing chunk from the sleeve of her Puffa jacket. Had she caught her arm while climbing the fence – trying to escape, perhaps?

She had been stabbed in the left side, once, a neat, clean hole from a knife that was nowhere in evidence, a knife that must have found her heart. From the dried blood coating her hands, it was clear that she had pressed them to her side, desperately clutching on for the few minutes the blood took to pump from the wound, knowing that her life was bleeding out, that no one was coming to save her.
Jesus.

Blowing air out of his nostrils, Marilyn stamped his feet to get his circulation going. Rain dribbled down his neck; he pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up, knowing that in a couple of minutes it would be sopping. He needed to get an incident-tent over the body and fast, if he was going to preserve any trace evidence. Where the hell were his crime scene investigators?

DS Workman was at his shoulder. ‘Call the CSIs,’ he snapped. ‘We need them here now.’ Turning to Gold, he continued, ‘Get that body covered. This rain will annihilate any trace evidence.’

Gold shucked down his jacket sleeves, reached up to rearrange his red beret.

‘Now, Gold.’

Gold still didn’t move.

Raising his voice so that the Military Police Scenes of Crime Officers, the Corporal jiggling nervously behind Ed Gold could hear him, clear as a bell, Marilyn said, ‘You’ve just told me that you’re in charge of this scene. I’ll buy front-row tickets to listen to you explain to your Special Investigation Branch chief, Colonel Holden-Hough, why all the evidence was washed away in Noah’s flood.’

Gold’s mouth tightened into a thin line. ‘Corporal Kiddie, get this scene watertight. Now,’ he barked. ‘Right now.’

Marilyn turned away, shaking his head. He didn’t want another murder to investigate – was struggling to make headway with the first – but there was no way that this was a military matter. It was pure coincidence that she had died on military soil. If it wasn’t for the fact that the poor woman deserved justice, deserved to have her killer caught, tried and convicted, he would let this clown fuck up the crime scene. But his conscience wouldn’t allow it.

‘I’d like to see Captain Ben Callan. I’ve worked with him before on a case. Can you give him a call?’

Gold stood his ground. ‘I’ve been assigned this case.’ His gaze narrowed. ‘And Callan isn’t going to be around much longer.’

Marilyn was momentarily thrown. It had been well over a year since he’d last seen Callan, but he had seemed career military: tough, dedicated, excellent at his job, going places. ‘He’s leaving the Army?’

‘He’ll be invalided out shortly.’

‘Why?’

Gold hesitated, raised a hand to cover his mouth, as if he realized he’d already said too much. ‘He was injured in Afghanistan. Shot in the head. He has … ongoing health issues associated with that injury.’

‘Detective Inspector.’ Sarah’s voice behind him. Marilyn swung around.

‘DS Workman.’

‘I’ve just heard from the hospital that they’re bringing Pauline Lewis out of sedation. It will take half an hour to get there. Shall I go?’

Marilyn didn’t respond immediately. He wasn’t sure which he’d prefer to do less. Stand here and measure dick size with this Gold prick or spend a few hours in a hospital trying to get salient information out of some old biddy who’d had the shock of her life.

He sighed. ‘Yes, you take the hospital. I’ll stay here. I have a phone call to make.’

Turning away, he pulled out his iPhone, jammed a thumb on the contact list. Did he have Callan’s mobile number?
Thankfully, yes.
He dialled, pacing while he waited.

A distorted voice came down the phone. ‘Callan speaking.’

‘Captain Callan, it’s Detective Inspector Bobby Simmons.’

On the other end of the line, Callan smiled. ‘Marilyn, what can I do for you?’

‘I could do with your help and quickly, if you can manage it.’

‘Manage it?’

‘I’ve been told that you’re being invalided out of the Army.’

A pause, Callan’s voice when he spoke again flint hard. ‘Where did you get that from, Detective Inspector?’

‘One of your fellow MPs, here at the crime scene. A Lieutenant Ed Gold. He tells me that you’re leaving the Army. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d been injured in Afghanistan.’

Silence. Marilyn felt it stretch uncomfortably. He had the uncharacteristic urge to fill it, said with false cheer, ‘But please don’t leave before you come and prise this joker off my crime scene.’

Nooria was agitated. She strode into Jessie’s office, pulling Sami along by the hand, a skittish energy radiating from her.

‘Wendy didn’t turn up this morning and Nick is in hospital having a checkup. They need to do more operations, more skin grafts. I’m supposed to be in college. It’s my exhibition the day after tomorrow.’ Her voice was high and brittle. ‘Nick was going to pick Sami up after your session, but he texted me a couple of minutes ago to say that he won’t be free for another hour.’

‘It’s fine, Nooria. Sami can stay here until Major Scott collects him. I have some kids’ cartoons on my iPad and Jenny, the department secretary, can keep an eye on him while he’s watching. We did that yesterday – it’s not a problem.’

Nooria’s eyes hung closed for a moment. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t feel that these sessions are doing Sami any good.’ The words rushed out of her; she wouldn’t meet Jessie’s gaze. ‘I don’t want him to see you again after today.’

‘He’s only had three sessions. It takes time.’

‘Nick doesn’t want him to continue either.’

She was standing, feet planted wide apart, hands on her hips. Wearing sky-blue combat trousers and a white cotton jerkin, her hair braided and hanging over her left shoulder, she looked fifteen. A beautiful, petulant fifteen-year-old.

Jessie stood her ground. ‘Nick … Major Scott referred him.’ She kept her voice down, wished that Nooria would do the same. Sami was in the corner of her office laying out the farm mat, but Jessie could tell from the tilt of his head that he was listening. She held a finger to her lips, indicated with the other hand for Nooria to step outside the door.

Out in the corridor, Nooria turned to face her again.

‘It was a mistake. We made a mistake. The sessions are not doing any good,’ she hissed. ‘He’s getting worse, more withdrawn, more frightened. I can’t deal with him at all now.’

‘As he starts to revisit the trauma, he will seem more withdrawn and frightened, but it’s a process he needs to go through so that he can come out the other side. You need to be patient.’

‘I can’t take it much longer. Honestly, I can’t.’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘We’re in a living hell at home.’ Pulling a tissue from the pocket of her combats, she jammed it to her eyes, blotting the tears. ‘I’ll take him to our GP, get him referred somewhere else, somewhere that only deals with children.’

‘That would be a disaster right now. He trusts me and he’s opening up. It’s a difficult process but the results
are
positive.’ She couldn’t afford to lose Sami, let him be taken elsewhere. Not now. Not while she had so many unanswered questions as to what lay behind his trauma, so many doubts, so many concerns. She had a duty to protect him – a moral duty as well as a professional one. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me, Nooria? Anything you haven’t mentioned so far?’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

Jessie took a breath. ‘Scott told me that you had a daughter a few years ago, with an ex-boyfriend. A daughter who died.’

Nooria looked shocked. ‘He shouldn’t have done that. It’s my business, my private
business and it’s
not
relevant.’ She pursed pale lips.

‘Every past experience is relevant, especially something that traumatic.’

‘What? So I’m the problem now?’ The tissue was shredding in her fingers.

‘That’s not what I’m saying. I’m trying to help.’

‘By interrogating me?’ she hissed. ‘By insinuating that I’m damaging my own child.’ The intensity of her fury surprised Jessie.

‘I don’t mean to interrogate you, but as I said at the beginning, Sami’s problems have to be tackled in the context of the family’s dynamics.’
The whole family’s problems –
she didn’t say it. Could sense that she was treading on very thin ice.

Nooria put a hand over her mouth. She looked as if she was about to burst into a flood of tears.

‘Sami refers to himself as “the girl”,’ Jessie said. ‘Scott told me that you dressed him in girls’ clothes when he was little, let his hair grow long, called him Sami. Why?’

‘Sami is his name.’

‘Samuel is his name.’

‘Sami is the Afghan variant of Samuel. Samuel, Sam, Sammy, Sami. Is there really any difference?’

‘You’re avoiding the issue. Why? Why don’t you want to talk about it?’

‘You tell me. You’re the psychologist. You seem to have all the answers.’ She gave a careless shrug and with that small reaction something hardened in Jessie’s chest.

‘Unfortunately for Sami I don’t have any answers yet,’ she snapped. ‘And your behaviour isn’t helping.’

Stepping forward suddenly, Nooria shoved her index finger right in Jessie’s face. Her eyes flashed with fury.

‘That’s because I’m sick of the bloody Army, sick of you people, sick of the interference in my life. I would never have married Nick if I’d known my life would be taken over like this.’

‘Unfortunately, the Army tends to do that.’

‘I thought it would help, that he would help.’ Her head jerked and her chin dropped to her chest. ‘But he didn’t, couldn’t.’

‘What do you mean, Nooria?’

She put a hand over her mouth, holding back a sob. ‘You’re so naive. You. All of you. You don’t understand. You’ll never understand anything.’

Jessie laid a hand on her arm, expected her to snatch it away, but she didn’t. She just stood there in the middle of the corridor, trembling, a naked expression of torment on her face.

‘What don’t I understand, Nooria? Explain it to me?’

‘Afghanistan. Afghans. You Westerners can never hope to understand the psychology of people out there. You think that you can dictate how they live, how they run their countries, their politics and you have … you have no idea how their psychology works.’

‘What has this got to do with Sami?’

‘Nick.’ Tears were streaming down her face now. ‘It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.’

Pulling away, she ran off down the corridor.

Sitting cross-legged in front of the farm like a little Buddha, Sami was stroking his hand rhythmically across the pond.

‘Waves on the pond,’ he muttered. ‘Waves on the pond.’

‘Hey, Sami.’

He glanced up at Jessie, a quizzical look on his face. His gaze slid past her to the window. It was a stormy morning, heavy grey clouds sitting low over the trees, wind frothing their leaves and branches.

‘Why do you want waves on the pond, Sami?’

‘It’s windy.’

‘Yes, it’s windy today. Cold and windy.’

His brow furrowed. ‘Not sunny?’

Jessie lowered herself down next to him.

‘We pretended that it was sunny last time, didn’t we, even though it was snowing. How about today we use the weather outside? Make it cold and windy on our farm too.’

He nodded, his eyes bright. ‘Windy makes waves.’

Jessie smiled. ‘You’re right, Sami. Windy does make waves.’

She sensed a rigidity in his posture that hadn’t been there a few moments before. A changing roll call of expressions moved across his face, as if reflecting the thoughts careening around inside his skull.

‘But it’s not dark,’ he murmured.

‘No, it’s not dark. It’s morning, so the sun only came up a couple of hours ago, even though it’s now hidden by the clouds.’

‘Waves,’ he muttered again. ‘Waves in the dark.’ Stretching out his hand, he pulled his torch close. The tip of his index finger found the switch and slid it on.

‘It doesn’t need to be dark to make waves, Sami. It only has to be windy.’

Brow wrinkling, he nodded silently. ‘Where is the man?’

‘The man?’

‘The man,’ he echoed.

‘The farmer? You mean the farmer?’

Sami hadn’t shown any interest in the farmer before, so Jessie had left him and his wife at the bottom of the animal box. Pulling them both out, she handed them to him. Holding one in each hand, Sami turned them over and over, studying them. Dropping the farmer’s wife back into the box, he bent forward and slid the farmer under the play-mat, positioning him so that he was directly under the pond.

‘The man is in the pond.’ His voice trembled.

‘Why have you put the man in the pond?’ Jessie asked softly.

Sami chewed on his lip. ‘Windy. Waves on the pond.’

‘Yes.’ She kept her voice gentle, even. ‘It’s windy outside and we’re pretending that it’s windy in our game too, so there are waves on the pond. But why have you put the farmer under the pond, Sami?’

Sami looked up at Jessie, his eyes so wide that his pupils were entirely ringed with white. He looked like a frightened rabbit, as if he might bolt at any sound.

‘The man is in the pond. The Shadowman is in the pond.’

The Shadowman.

‘The Shadowman? Do you see the Shadowman, Sami?’

Sami gave a rigid nod.

‘The Shadowman,’ he echoed. He was clasping the torch so tightly that his fingers were bleached of colour. ‘Shadowman, whispering, whispering.’

‘Who is the Shadowman, Sami?’

He didn’t answer her. ‘Whispering, whispering,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Make Mummy sad.’

Surely the Shadowman is me?

‘Is the Shadowman your daddy?’

‘Mummy and Daddy fighting. Daddy make Mummy sad.’ His face was mottled and pale as marble. A single tear squeezed from his eye and ran down his cheek. ‘The torch can find the Shadowman.’ Sliding the torch under the play-mat, he muttered: ‘The Shadowman is here. Under the covers.’

‘Sami.’

Jessie touched his arm gently; he leapt as if she’d branded him with a red-hot iron. He looked up at her, his eyes wild and full of fear.

‘Stay in bed,’ he muttered. ‘The girl is good. The boy is bad. Stay in bed, Mummy says.’

He hugged the torch, chest heaving in great, shuddering sobs.

‘The Shadowman is burnt. The torch keeps the boy safe.’

Jessie put her hand out, closed it around his, on the shaft of the torch, wrapped her other arm around his tiny, trembling body.

‘I won’t let anyone hurt you, Sami. I promise.’

Curling into her, he hid his face in her shoulder.

‘Sami is safe with the woman,’ he whispered. ‘Sami is safe with you.’