Perfect Death: The gripping new crime book you won’t be able to put down!. Helen FieldsЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘If he had known the truth, he would have been blinded by my pain. But I know that he would have loved you no less, no differently, and I have always believed that you are his son.’
‘No. Not when Astrid came to you with her lies. For a while, then, you believed something else. Is that the guilty burden you came to shift? That you thought, for however fleeting a moment, like father like son. You thought that my biological father was the man who had raped you, and that I had turned out the same. That’s why you left me,’ Callanach said, picking up his coat and shrugging it on.
‘Luc, it wasn’t that black and white. I was devastated by the past all over again. Nothing made sense to me. I ran because I couldn’t hide the pain I was feeling and you had more than enough to deal with. This conversation we’re having now, that I always knew we would have to have one day, would have been too much for you back then.’
‘It’s too much for me now!’ Callanach shouted, reaching for the door.
Véronique threw herself in the way. ‘Please, please don’t go. I know how you’re feeling, I want to help you.’
‘I’ve just been told that my life may be the result of a rape, and that the man I’ve believed all my life was my father may not be. You have no idea how I’m feeling!’
‘I shouldn’t have told you,’ Véronique sobbed, collapsing into the chair, head on her knees. ‘I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought it would help you forgive me.’
Callanach pushed the door gently shut and sat on the edge of the bed facing his mother. ‘There’s nothing left to forgive,’ he said. ‘Go back to France. You have to give me some time now.’
He stood up, left quietly and made his way back down to the street. It looked the same as he had left it, yet he felt it should have been different. That it should have changed with him. Everything he thought he knew about himself might be a lie. The solid ground beneath his feet was gone. His mother was even more a victim than him, yet he hadn’t had the strength to be the man she needed, to comfort and reassure her. Callanach turned up his collar against the icy walk home, telling himself as he went that the tears streaming down his face could be blamed on the wind in his eyes.
The main gates to Louis Jones’ car yard were locked and bolted. Leaving DC Tripp in the car, Ava walked the perimeter of the premises looking for a way in. It turned out not to require much effort. A back gate, through which lay a short alley, had been on the receiving end of some well-applied bolt cutters, its lock on the ground in two pieces. Ava pushed the gate fully open with her elbow, pulling on gloves as she entered and switching on a torch. The lot was full of vehicles. All had seen better days, most with dents that no amount of beating would repair. The whole place was surrounded by an eight-foot-high metal fence, the inside of which had been privatised using planks of wood. Jones wouldn’t have wanted anyone noting the licence plates on his vehicles, of course. Ava wondered if any of the cars there had been driven by the man who’d abducted her. She pushed the thought aside. That wasn’t what she was there for, and dwelling on it was a shortcut to misery. What she needed to figure out now, was who had been driving the crashed car.
Along one edge of the lot was a brick building. There was only one door that she could see and it was sturdy, probably reinforced. The windows, however, were another matter. There were only two and both were smashed, the displaced shards reflecting streaks of torchlight. Louis Jones, by the look of it, was having a very bad day indeed. Ava put her head to the first window, darted the torch around, announced the police presence even though the premises seemed vacant, and jumped in. Someone before her had been kind enough to dash any remaining glass spikes from the lower edge of the window. To the left-hand side of the room was a desk, each drawer ripped open, the contents scattered across the floor. A landline phone lay on the floor beneath an upturned chair, and sad-looking posters of supercars that had once adorned the walls hung in tatters.
The place had been ransacked. The question was whether the intruders had caused such carnage to send a message, or whether they were searching for something specific. A rack of keys along the right-hand wall was untouched. It wasn’t a vehicle they were after, then. Ava glanced around for evidence of a computer, but outfits like Jones’ rarely kept their records on anything as substantial as digital files. An internal door stood ajar, nothing but blackness showing in the crack. Ava walked to it slowly, kicked it open and drew a can of pepper spray from her jacket pocket. A screech came from the back of the area and Ava ducked, sending out a jet of pepper gas, slashing the torchlight left and right across the room.
‘Police, stay where you are,’ she shouted. There was no reply. ‘There’s another officer at the front door,’ Ava lied. ‘If you attempt to leave the premises, you will be stopped with force.’ She stood up, focusing the light and her eyes on the rear of the room. Panicked fluttering and squawking filled the air.
Ava stepped forward, conscious that the ground beneath her feet had softened. Flicking the light downwards she saw that the floor was strewn with bedding. A mattress was overturned in the corner, and clothes that had once inhabited an upturned chest of drawers were everywhere. Straightening up, she noticed a large cage in the corner containing two parrots. They were staring, making her feel oddly self-conscious.
‘What sort of person keeps caged birds in this day and age?’ Ava muttered. The response was further screeching as she neared the parrots. There was a huge pile of bird seed on the floor of the cage and an empty packet on the floor. ‘Someone knew they weren’t coming back for a while, didn’t they?’ she asked the birds.
Jones had obviously been living in the back rooms. A toilet and shower were situated in a side room, separated from the bedroom by a plastic curtain. In the corner, a microwave, toaster and kettle provided cooking facilities. Ava cursed quietly as she realised she would have to arrange for the SPCA to collect the birds. Making her way back through to the front office, Ava read the scrawled handwritten notes scattered across the floor. No wonder Louis Jones was reduced to living on a mattress on the floor, if that was how he did business. She picked up the landline, plugged it back in and dialled recall for the last number that had phoned in, scribbling it down before leaving. The scene would have to be secured, by which time the driver of the crashed vehicle might have been located unharmed. Unless it really had been Louis Jones, Ava thought, in which case maybe a broken limb or two wouldn’t be such a tragedy.
She went back out to the car and climbed in next to DC Tripp.
‘Pair of parrots need taking care of,’ she said. ‘Ask the SPCA to come out in the morning. They’ve got plenty of food to keep them going until then. Have some uniforms come and secure the premises until we’ve located the owner.’
‘Is it a crime scene, ma’am?’ Tripp asked.
‘Looks like it, unless the owner decided to redecorate in a rather unconventional manner. At the moment, though, we have no burglary complainant and no grounds for doing much. I don’t know what’s going on yet and I’m not kicking off an investigation until I do.’ She dialled DS Lively’s number.
‘Haven’t found the driver yet,’ he said. ‘Do we know anything more from Jones’ file?’
‘Nothing I can share,’ Ava said. ‘Who’s in charge at the scene?’
‘Chief Inspector Dimitri. He’s getting it all packed up now, having the car towed. The dogs have been recalled.’
Ava considered the name. ‘I’ve met him. He was the officer in charge at the Chief’s suicide; he seemed very kind. Begbie would have liked him,’ Ava commented. ‘Take a note of this phone number, would you?’ She read out the last number that had called in to Jones’ landline. ‘Check it out for me. Details for my eyes only at this stage. Jones’ file is still confidential. Whatever’s happened to Louis Jones, given the way he lived, I very much doubt there’s an innocent explanation.’