143 Read online

  At the time she was discovered she was fully clothed and a valuable necklace still remained around her neck. The last piece of the police report detailed her personal possessions at the time of the attack. Her mobile phone was found in her bag and a log of her calls from the phone company had shown she had only made one call that morning and that was to rearrange her appointment.

  There had been some speculation amongst her colleagues that Genevieve's partner had attacked her because she'd found out that she was having an affair. Although the remarks were made in jest, they were areas that Isabel had had to take into account and investigate. "Everyone is a suspect until they aren't" was her motto. She had quickly managed to rule out Rebecca. She had been investigating Paul as a subject of interest, but was having problems establishing anything worthwhile due to the time of the attack. She knew Genevieve had left Rebecca at around nine-thirty a.m., but the report wasn't called in until around eleven a.m., which meant that there was an hour and a half's time-frame in which anybody could have attacked Genevieve.

  When Isabel had visited Paul's home to obtain a statement, she had asked him for an alibi and he had told her he was at home getting ready for his showcase that evening. He said he could account for his whereabouts after eleven-thirty a.m. because he had gone to the gallery for last-minute talks. This was confirmed by the gallery owner. While he couldn't prove that he hadn't done it, she couldn't prove that he had. He'd tried to use his good looks and charm to disarm her, but it hadn't worked, it had just set alarm bells ringing. There was something about his demeanour she didn't like. He had a certain sort of smugness, as though he was relishing every last bit of the drama they were all engulfed in.

  She had questioned him about his relationship with Genevieve and he had said that they had once been engaged, but had broken up. He didn't say why they had, which had made her wonder if he was the victim in this. Why wouldn't he tell her about Genevieve's unfaithfulness and the pain it had caused him? Was it male pride? Or was it because it would give him a motive? Did he think she wouldn't find out? She could just about understand why Genevieve's parents might want to block out her past and push her into a straight life, but she couldn't understand the part he played in it, and more to the point, why he would want any part of it at all.

  If Genevieve had left him of her own accord, why would he be so shallow as to try and have a relationship with her when he knew it was not what she would have wanted? Surely if he loved her he would have told her the truth? Every time she had visited Genevieve's parent's house he had been there, all over Genevieve like a rash. It sickened her to see what he was doing, and what was worse was that the parents were actually encouraging him.

  She had found out through careful questioning of Genevieve's parents that they had made sure she didn't receive any mail that wasn't vetted first — their excuse was that they didn't want her reading anything which would upset her. They gave the same reason for not having an Internet connection. Papers were carefully selected in case there were any articles about her. Genevieve's father had told Isabel all this information seemingly oblivious to the fact the he had, in essence, encased his daughter in a prison. It was a sorry sight. These were people who professed to love Genevieve, but if that was their idea of love they could keep it.

  Two months on and there were no suspects, no leads, and no new evidence. The shrill of the phone beside her startled her and she picked it up immediately.

  "Detective Smith," she said. After listening for a few moments, she continued, "Yes sir, I'll be right there." She gathered up Genevieve's file and headed to her boss's office.

  Ted Pikes was a Detective Inspector who had moved through the ranks quickly. He was an amiable man with a perpetual smile. He was sitting behind his desk when Isabel entered his modest office. Not quite as shabby as the rest of the building's interior, its walls were painted a pale green with matching curtains. His glasses were resting in their customary position on his large forehead, which his mop of curly hair failed to conceal.

  "Please sit down," he said, motioning for Isabel to sit on the chair opposite him. "So," he began, "how's this Simmons case going?"

  "Not very well," she admitted. "There just doesn't seem to be an explanation for it. I've exhausted all avenues and I'm still at a loss." Ted rubbed his eyes and brought his glasses down to rest on his fleshy nose.

  "Where do you think this is leading?" he asked, genuinely interested.

  "Well sir, until the victim remembers something or we get some new evidence, there isn't much more to be done."

  "Well I suggest we put it on the backburner for now, concentrate on your other cases."?"

  "Yes sir," she said wearily.

  "I'm sure you've tried your best Isabel,"." He saw the dismay in her eyes.

  "Don't feel bad about it; we can't get them all the time," he reassured her.

  "Thank you, sir." Isabel stood up and went back to her desk.

  CHAPTER 15

  CARLA WILLIAMS listened politely and sympathetically to her client charting the destruction of her life in the space of two months. She kept her manicured fingers wrapped around a silver pen, waiting to hear anything of interest that she could note as something to fight back with. What she was hearing did not fill her with great hope. As much as she hated to be the one to do it, she owed it to her client professionally and personally to cut the bullshit and be brutal with the truth. She laid her pen down on the pad of paper and rubbed her forehead, a gesture she used when delivering bad news.

  "Rebecca, you don't have a chance in hell. Genevieve is a grown woman who has willingly gone home with her parents. I assume she has the freedom to leave the home as and when she wants to, and she has the free will to pick up the phone and call you should she so wish. It's not a crime to lose your memory and lose contact with people, regardless of how close they were."

  Rebecca's heart sank; this was her last attempt to find a way back into Genevieve's life and her hope had been shattered in the space of a few sentences. She stood up wearily and walked over to the window overlooking the Soho shops and bars. For what seemed like an age to Carla, Rebecca stood still as a statue, gazing straight ahead, seemingly indifferent to the hustle and bustle of life on the streets below. Carla stood up and walked over to join Rebecca, putting her arm around her shoulders.

  "You will get through this." That was something she didn't say lightly. She'd had clients in worse emotional states than Rebecca whom she thought had no chance of surviving, but she had been proven wrong time and time again when they had walked back through her office door like new people. Knowing Rebecca as she did, she knew she would overcome this situation, whichever way it turned out.

  "If — and it's a big if — her parents try to start interfering in her financial matters," she began to say, feeling Rebecca stiffen in her grip, "we will have more leeway to act. We could then make the truth about your relationship public, which makes me think that they are in no rush to cut ties with you completely... not yet anyway. But," she said, rubbing her arm, "hopefully Genevieve's memory will have come back by the time anything that drastic happens."

  Rebecca slowly let out a heavy breath and turned to look at her solicitor.

  "This is what happens when you take things for granted, isn't it," she said with a hint of finality. Carla released her arm from around Rebecca's shoulders; there was nothing more she could say. Rebecca gave her a quick kiss on her cheek and thanked her for her time.

  "I'll be there with you every step of the way," Carla called out to Rebecca as she left her office.

  Emerging from the air conditioned building, Rebecca was assaulted by the heat that engulfed her like a blanket as she stood on the pavement. She removed her cardigan and opened the top few buttons on her blouse to find some relief from the oppressive air. Almost as if she was on autopilot, she began walking in the direction of the underground. Once there, she found herself buying a ticket and making her way to the platform. She was grateful that it wasn't rush hour and there were
n't many people around. With the sound of the rattling train approaching fast, she waited for it to come into view. She imagined for one split second that she could just end all this pain there and then. All it would take would be to put one foot over the edge and it would all be blissfully over.

  Coming to her senses, she took a couple of steps back as the train came to a screeching halt in front of her and waited for the few passengers to make their way off before boarding the claustrophobic carriage. She often wondered how on earth people used the underground to go to work. All packed in like cattle; strangers' bodies pressed close together, breathing in the same stale air. The very thought of it made her shudder. She was relieved when she changed at Victoria from the underground to an overhead train to Surrey.

  When she reached her destination, she took a taxi from the station to Genevieve's parents' house. Her mind echoed with the sound of Peter warning her to stay away from there, but she couldn't help herself, she was desperate. She asked the taxi driver to stop halfway down the street and she made the rest of the journey on foot, stopping to hide behind a large oak tree opposite the house. She peeked out, looking for any signs of movement and drew her head back quickly when the lights in the front room went on.

  Slowly, she moved out to look into the room. She could make out all four figures standing there, their movements indicating they were sharing a joke. She knew she was torturing herself, but she couldn't turn away. She had to see this for herself. It was true, what Carla had said, Genevieve was there of her own accord, and as much as it hurt Rebecca to admit it, she looked quite happy.

  She shifted uncomfortably on her feet to ease the discomfort in her leg muscles as they began to ache from standing in the same position for too long. She hadn't even noticed that the daylight was giving way to darkness. She also hadn't noticed the drop in the temperature until she began to feel chilly. She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to generate some heat.

  The living room light went off and she assumed they had left the room. She was just about to leave the cover of the tree when the front door opened and the laughter of Genevieve filtered through the air. It was soon joined by Paul's and followed by goodbyes and then the door slamming shut. She peeked round the tree again to see Genevieve and Paul walking down the pathway together like childhood sweethearts. He paused to snap off a red rose from the rose bush that grew in the front garden and handed it to her gallantly. She took it and played along with him by curtseying.

  They both burst out laughing and made their way to a parked car. Once inside, she managed to catch one last glimpse of the happy couple before they drove off, and it was one that broke her heart. Paul leaned over and kissed Genevieve on the lips. Rebecca couldn't bear to watch what happened next. The thought of having to see Genevieve embrace him was too much for her and she ran alone into the night, pins and needles shooting through her unused legs; the sound of her thumping heart drowning out the thoughts that were trying to consume her.

  CHAPTER 16

  REBECCA DIALLED the number from the piece of paper she held in her hand. The phone was answered after six rings. She spoke three words:

  "Dinner. My treat." Upon hearing the reply she smiled and hung up. Two hours later she stood on the corner of Dean Street waiting for her dinner date. When she arrived, the two women embraced and walked toward their chosen restaurant in Chinatown.

  Once seated and having placed their orders, Rebecca began, "I hope you don't mind me calling?"

  "Of course not; that's why I gave you my number," Isabel said, smiling. Rebecca shifted in her seat and then asked

  "So, how have you been since our last night out?"

  "Let's just say I never thought I would recover... I'm not as young as I used to be! It took me two days for that hangover to work through," Isabel replied.

  Rebecca laughed.

  "I know what you mean; I didn't fare that well either. Can you imagine there was a time when we didn't really care about hangovers? Now I have to weigh up how much damage each glass of wine will do to me."

  "Well, Tia was the lucky one." Then Isabel quickly added, "To escape the hangover, that is."

  "Even if she hadn't gone home early she still wouldn't have been ill. I don't think in all the years I've known her that I've ever seen her ill after a night out. She's the person that everyone envies the day after," Rebecca said, smiling while reminiscing.

  "How is she?"

  "She's fine. I think you have an admirer." Isabel blushed.

  "She's very nice, but..."

  "Not in that way," Rebecca said, smiling.

  "That's an over-used cliché isn't it?"

  "Not really; you can't help who you're attracted to, and anyway, you two aren't suited."

  "And why is that?" Isabel asked, leaning forward.

  "Well, for starters, you're a police officer."

  "And?"

  "And I don't think you would quite appreciate some of Tia's, shall we say... habits?"

  "Say no more," Isabel said, holding up her hand jokingly. "If you could find me a woman who doesn't have... ahem, ahem... certain habits, I'd eat my non-existent hat."

  "Well, you'd better start eating it," Rebecca replied playfully.

  "You?" She nodded. "I can quite believe it."

  "Hey, what does that mean? Do you think I look straight laced?" she said, feigning insult.

  "No, just sensible," Isabel replied, trying not to smile too broadly.

  "Lucky escape."

  The food was brought to their table and they ate hungrily, both women realising that they hadn't eaten since lunch time. Isabel knew she had to tell Rebecca that she was no longer actively working on the case, but didn't quite know how to break it to her.

  "Would you like to go for a drink somewhere quiet?" Isabel asked.

  "Sounds serious."

  Isabel was hesitant, choosing her words carefully. "It's just something you need to know about the case."

  Rebecca studied Isabel's face and signalled for the waiter so she could settle the bill. The women made their way to a pub around the corner from the restaurant in silence. The stench of stale alcohol assaulted their senses as they walked through the door. Rebecca thought again that maybe having non-smoking bars wasn't such a good idea — at least the smoke covered the odour!

  The pub was close enough to deserted, just a few men drinking their beers, watching the large TV screen showing football and occasionally yelling out an obscenity when their team failed to score. Rebecca went to the bar while Isabel found them a table.

  "What can I get you?" the disinterested bar attendant asked. Her jet black hair matched the colour of her eye liner, pencilled so thickly around her eyes that they nearly disappeared, and her hook nose made Rebecca think of a raven.

  "Two white wines please," she answered, matching her tone of voice. The bar attendant sloppily poured the drinks into two wine glasses, splashing it over the sides.

  "Eight quid," she said. Rebecca laid a ten pound note on the bar, picked up her drinks and walked away. She'd spent more than enough time in the raven's company. She caught sight of where Isabel was and walked toward her, grateful she had chosen to sit as far away from the bar and that woman's bad vibes as possible.

  "So what's the bad news?" Rebecca asked, sitting down.

  "There's no easy way to tell you so I will just say it... I'm no longer working on Genevieve's case."

  "Okay," Rebecca said slowly, not quite understanding why this would cause a problem. She sipped her wine slowly and pulled a face as the alcohol hit her taste buds.

  "I don't think you understand. Neither I nor anyone else will be working her case anymore."

  "What!" Rebecca was taken aback, her face aghast. "What do you mean? No one will be working her case? Are you trying to tell me you're closing it?" Her eyes narrowed.

  "In a way, yes. If we get any new evidence we will reopen it, but for now there's no more I can do. I've tried, Rebecca; I've gone down every road I can think of trying to find something
, but everywhere I turn I'm met with a dead end. I'm really sorry," she said. Rebecca held her head in both hands, shaking it.

  "This can't be happening! What about Paul?" she said, clutching at straws in desperation. "Even you said yourself that it was suspicious that the invitation just so happened to turn up out of the blue the day Genie was attacked."

  "Yes, I know, but I've got nothing on him. There's nothing that links him to being there that morning — no DNA — nothing. Short of him coming to the station and making a full confession, he's done nothing wrong, and if he has, I can't find the evidence."

  "So that's it then," Rebecca said softly, more to herself. "That's how the story ends."

  "Rebecca, if I get the slightest whiff of information that could shed new light on this case I will be all over it, but until then..." Isabel shrugged her shoulders, defeated. Rebecca sipped her wine and let out a long sigh.

  "This nightmare is never going to end; there's never going to be any closure."

  "Rebecca, you have to have hope. Genevieve is still alive and if her memory recovers, and it was Paul who was responsible, we'll nail the bastard — that I can promise you."

  She leaned over and squeezed Rebecca's shoulder, trying to reassure her but knowing full well how futile her statement was. Rebecca shook her head as though disagreeing with herself — she just couldn't believe that whoever had hurt Genevieve was going to get away with it.