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

the time the video was shot – disappearance? Had Overeem, either during his post-production research or while filming around Lampton, discovered the identity of her killer? Was his evidence played here by blank sheets of paper?

It was a shame Overeem had cut the rehearsal when he did. Otherwise, he might have outlined his evidence, maybe even named his suspect.

The video was shot shortly before the crew visited the Red Lion: had they gone there to find this man? Had they somehow gotten a message to him, perhaps through someone at the pub, and set up a meeting for later?

Had Sally Jenkins’ killer murdered four people and buried them where he knew a body could lie undiscovered for years, in order to keep his secret?

62

Sophie Turton answered the door without showing her face. The door clicked open a few inches and Bennet had to push it. He saw Sophie walking away up the stairs, not a word said. At first he wondered if she thought he was someone else, and he spoke her name. She heard, but continued walking. He followed.

He knew the bedroom she led him into was her dead son’s. Space and astronomy was his thing and the window was covered with stickers of the planets. But all other indicators had gone. The room was empty except for an old blanket around the edges of the carpet and a craggy table stacked with paint tins, brushes and rollers. Sophie was in the process of turning the walls from green to cream.

She started to drag household cleaning gloves on. She was free of paint splatter except for a streak on one ear. Seeing his scrutiny of the room, she said, ‘You think what I’m doing is wrong, don’t you? This room should be a time capsule, that’s what you think?’

‘It should be whatever you want.’

‘You think I’m trying to forget my son, don’t you?’

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry if that sounded harsh. My brother… he flipped, seeing this. So I’m waiting for Ralph to shout at me when he gets home from work. That’s right, I didn’t tell him.’

It was just after 6pm. Bennet knew Ralph Turton stacked shelves at Asda from two till six, so his bus would probably drop him off in about half an hour. Bennet didn’t want to be around when he returned, just in case an argument started. Not his business.

‘We were contacted by your people,’ Sophie said. ‘You’re no longer running the case. They wouldn’t say why.’

She looked like she expected Bennet to fill in the blanks. ‘Personal issue. I’ll be taking over again next week hopefully.’

She snorted and grabbed a paintbrush and moved to a wall. ‘Next week. There’s confirmation nobody will be arrested today.’ She dropped the brush onto the blanket protecting the carpet and turned to him. ‘Sorry again. I keep snapping at everyone.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘You could have stayed away. You could have thought, finally, I can get away from that weird couple and their silly dead son. But you didn’t. You came here and you didn’t have to. So, I’m sorry. But why did you come? I know it’s not good news.’

Bennet removed something from his pocket. Sophie stripped off her gloves and virtually pounced upon it. When she smiled, he realised he hadn’t ever seen this before. She clutched the bronze plaque to her chest. Bennet had engraved it with the words from the laminated dedication the Turtons had stapled to a bench in Buttery Park. ‘How much do I owe you for this?’

That didn’t even deserve an answer, and they both knew it. ‘You can put it on the same bench. I got permission. Police clout.’ A lie. He had paid Barnsley Metropolitan Borough Council £600.

A few minutes later, she walked him to the door, but called him back as he headed down the path. He turned, but she said nothing, and he knew her words shouldn’t be overheard. He moved closer.

‘I shouldn’t have asked you to do that thing. I’m glad you didn’t. But I know you would have. So, I’m sorry and thank you. I’ll wait for proper justice. One day, right?’

‘One day,’ Bennet said, and turned to leave. Sitting in his car, he noticed paint on his cheek from where Sophie had hugged him in the bedroom. He decided to leave it there for a while.

63

That evening, forty minutes before two bells went off and changed everything, Bennet loaded the file found on the flash drive and again watched the last ever video of Lorraine before she died. It was a purely selfless action though. Or so he told himself. He wanted to create a new video, sans Overeem, Crickmer and Crute. Lorraine alone. For Joe. Or so he told himself. He had free time because Joe and Patricia were upstairs and the pensioner was learning ten attack combos on a fighting game.

It involved watching the video numerous times to find relevant portions and to hone his cutting, cropping and transitioning skills with the video editing software he’d downloaded. And he’d found a beauty. In the video, when Overeem had sent everyone out of the ranch kitchen in order to reshoot, Lorraine had smiled and given a thumbs up. A perfect image and Joe would love it.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t find a decent line of audio to sync it with. There was one that put a lump in his throat, because he wished she was still around to say it:

‘Why don’t we pick up where we left off?’

But there was one far more in line with history:

‘I’m leaving. Don’t contact me again.’

But none would fit with a thumbs up for a ten-year-old boy. He would have to try to cut and splice individual words to form a sentence, although he feared Lorraine would wind up sounding like a robot with its batteries running low.

So, he rewound, and watched again, and again, and–

That was when the first bell rang. It was in his head. He leaned back in his chair, sure he was wrong. But he knew he wasn’t.