Cold Blood by Jane Heafield (great books to read txt) 📕

As the daylight slowly relinquished its turn, Bennet wondered why he had come here. Had he planned to console the man? Tell him that coping alone was possible, because Bennet had done it? Had he hoped to make moves towards bringing Tessa and Joe together because for too long Bennet had kept them apart?

All those ideas had run through his head as he drove here, but they had felt wrong, and especially so now he was here. Lorraine was the only connection between the two families, and she was gone. Nothing biological connected Tessa and Bennet. Tessa and Joe were half-siblings, but too young to understand such a bond yet.

Some day in the future, if they chose, they could seek each other out. It wasn’t Bennet’s place to force that. All Bennet could offer right now was a promise to Ian: he would catch Lorraine’s killer. But that was the worst of all things he could do. It wasn’t Bennet’s murder investigation, and solving it was no certainty anyway. Many killers died years after snuffing out a life, free and happy in their own beds. Lorraine’s murderer could even be one of the dead film crew, beyond the reach of justice before a soul knew of his crime. Police officers were cautioned never to make such promises to grieving relatives, and it would be a bad, bad idea to get out of the car, knock on that door, and say those words. He should just go home to Joe.

He got out of the car.

51

All day, something Sally Jenkins’ mother had said had been revolving in his mind: ‘Such a contrast. A mother who knows exactly where her child is, but doesn’t want to see him. And a mother who would do anything to know where her baby is.’

And now there would be no happy ending for anyone.

But there was another mother in suffering. Someone who had experienced the ultimate horror of murder of a loved one, and who had so far been abandoned by those who were supposed to help her. Tonight, right now, he couldn’t help Joe, and he couldn’t kill Sally’s mother’s pain, but he could get justice for someone.

The house was a semi on a street with high hedges bordering the front yards. When Bennet knocked, a rake-thin man answered. He had messy hair and sunken eyes. Anyone’s first guess as to his appearance would probably be grief, and spot on.

Without a word, Ralph Turton gave a nod at Bennet and led him in. Sophie Turton, a large lady with an equally sad face, was at the kitchen table, absent-mindedly peeling potatoes. Her husband didn’t introduce Bennet, and she gave him the same blank look. In the early days, each visit by one of Bennet’s team had been met with a look of expectation, but no more. They were used to no good news. Or no news at all. Clearly, they expected the same tonight.

Ralph sat by his wife. Bennet took a chair opposite and took something from his pocket. He laid the mugshot on the table and the Turtons stared at it.

‘Donald Ashcroft,’ Bennet said. ‘He’s sixteen. A drug dealer and all-round thug known as Don The Man. This is the little shit we think killed your son.’

Ralph turned his head away, disgusted, but Sophie bent closer to get a really good look. Ralph got up and went to the kitchen window. The man seemed to be watching his own reflection. Sophie was mouthing something to herself, eyes locked on the face in the photo.

Bennet showed her a picture on his phone. She almost had trouble dragging her eyes off Don The Man, on to a Google image of a black Citroen Saxo. Sophie nodded. ‘The car we’ve been seeing around. His?’

Bennet nodded. He saw both Turtons deflate. Now they knew the bastard who’d killed their son was the same man taunting them about it.

‘Why hasn’t he been arrested if you’re so sure?’ Ralph demanded.

‘He was. We had to let him go, lack of evidence. Someone higher up than me decided not to tell you. It was deemed not right to condemn him since he’s not been charged. It would just get your hopes up. But this Don The Man, he’s not out of the woods yet. We’re still hunting evidence to arrest and charge him.’

Ralph almost spat. ‘But he’s not in a cell. He’s out, having fun, laughing at you. Laughing at us.’

‘Ralph, watch your mouth around Mr Bennet. He’s trying to help. Who would help us if he didn’t? They’ll get him one day.’

‘One day,’ Ralph mocked.

‘And now watch how you speak to me, please.’

‘I’ll get him for you.’ The way Bennet said it made both Turtons wake up a little. Ralph forgot his black reflection and Sophie looked up from the mugshot. ‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t come round here again. I’ll go mess this idiot up. Or I can plant evidence. I’ll do it tonight, right now. Just give me the word.’

Sophie gave her husband a look and got up. ‘I need air. I need to go to the shop.’ And she grabbed her cigarettes from the table and left. Bennet heard the front door open and close.

Ralph took his wife’s place at the table. There was a new wakefulness in his eyes. Bennet realised that Sophie might not have fled in disgust, or confusion. Perhaps she had left the room to give her husband the floor. To give him permission.

‘I want you to do it,’ Ralph said, turning the mugshot face down. ‘Plant blood or fingerprints, whatever, and get this bastard locked up.’

Bennet nodded. Ralph got up and returned to the black window, and his gaunt image in the glass. Bennet understood it was time to leave.

As he was about to open his car door, a voice cut into the silent darkness.

‘You never did promise.’

He turned. Sophie hadn’t gone to the shops: she was by her high front hedge, barely more than a shivering silhouette with a burning