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

‘Where is your son hiding? Are you protecting him? Did he run because he’s a killer? Why haven’t you pleaded with him to give himself up?’

Turner had vanished into his bedroom, but this question prompted a return. Angry, he threw the curtains aside, stepped out, and slapped his hands on the railing.

‘I chose not to do a silly TV news appeal for him to return because he will come when he’s ready. He knows I want him back and saying it on TV will not help. He did not kill anyone, none of us did. I do not know where he is or how to contact him, and I told the police this. I love my son, and truth be told it would be better that he stayed away for a while. Because soon the police will have their proof that the killers they seek are still out there, and my son can return to avoid the kind of doubt and hatred I see on your faces. It’s ironic that I have lost my son, and stand here now, facing these ridiculous charges, because of an obnoxious man’s love of his own son. That is all. Now, you should leave my village because you won’t get what you want from my people. Again, if you want answers, ask the police why they did such a weak job when Sally Jenkins went missing. Goodbye.’

And that was it: show over. Clearly, Turner was still angry about Bennet’s interference. The bastard was too narcissistic to acknowledge that the ‘obnoxious man’ had helped grieving families find a little solace.

The balcony interview had been a couple of hours ago. Since then, Turner would have watched the seed he’d sown take root and blossom: Derbyshire police were coming under fire for their efforts long ago when Sally Jenkins went missing. Bennet had to admit the councillor had a point. A body of water like Lake Stanton, just a few miles from Lampton, should have been searched. But hindsight was a powerful tool. And as a major obstacle to the investigation, Turner had no right to condemn the police. If he’d planned to get the focus off himself a little, it had worked.

Turner had also probably learned how wrong he’d been about his people slamming doors in reporters’ faces.

Plenty of Lampton locals had invited media people into their homes, and microphones had even been allowed into the shops and the Lion, where a mob had gathered to gossip. Again, opinion was split. Some respected Turner’s unwavering care for their village, others hated what he’d done but understood his actions.

A handful refused to believe he was involved in any way but was willing to accept the blame to protect others, while some doubted someone of his power in the village could have no knowledge of the murders – either he was a killer or knew who was.

And a few people, thinking his power was gone and glad of it, took the opportunity to moan about insignificant things he’d done to them, like banning dogs from barking after 11pm. But for each of the latter, there was one who considered him omnipotent and wide-eyed, refused to say a word to reporters.

‘Dad? Can I go again?’

Bennet put his phone away. He and Joe were at Rother Valley Country Park, just to get away from everything. Joe was on the playpark, laughing with the other kids, and Bennet envied his son’s ability to compartmentalise his emotions. Here, by the lake, surrounded by green, Bennet had hoped to put the last few days out of his mind for a while. But it was no good.

It had helped Joe that he’d had some bright news emerge from the gloom. Lorraine’s husband, Ian, had called that morning and suggested Bennet and Joe could attend her funeral. Joe liked the idea because he could meet his little half-sister, although he’d already said he didn’t want to see his mother’s body. For a child, he was quite adult in his diagnosis that seeing her dead, even touched up by the funeral home, would ruin the lively photos he had of her from her Facebook profile.

Bennet didn’t like the idea of attending Lorraine’s funeral, but was unsure why. He would go though. For Joe.

‘Dad, can I go again?’

‘As much as you want.’

While Joe ran off to play with the other kids, Bennet made another call.

‘No murder charges yet,’ Bennet said when Superintendent Sutton answered. ‘You’ve got nothing yet?’

‘We’re still on the hunt. As yet, no. We could be looking at an unknown entity, you know?’

Bennet knew. He wasn’t sure Turner and his gang were killers, but he wanted them to be. He needed them to be. He didn’t want this whole thing unresolved for months. Or unsolved forever. ‘Turner’s on TV telling the world not to look in Lampton for the killer. He thinks anyone could have found that lake. And maybe that’s right. But most people expect lakebeds to gradually slope down. Anywhere else, you’d have to push that motorhome right out into the middle to fully submerge it. Lake Stanton is different because it has that sharp ledge and a deep drop. Only locals would know that.’

‘I know. We’re looking into it. Everyone in Lampton will be spoken to, I don’t care if they’re eighty years old. And we’ll trace everybody who lived in the area in 2010, even if they moved out of the country. But, bizarre as it sounds, the story we have could be the truth.’

‘And you looked at their alibis? Like you said, we’re looking at the murders of the film crew occurring between about ten fifteen and not long after midnight on Sunday.’

‘Working on it. At that time, Turner and his son were at the Porsche showroom that Lucas runs. That’s Turner’s story and it’s backed up by the employee in the petrol station across the road. He saw a workshop roller door open and heard work going on inside, and he saw movement.’

‘He