Chapter Eight

That went well, Jasmine smiled, pleased with proceedings. She’d had to adlib a bit, but the affair was a nice touch. That had knocked the wind out of the oh-so-perfect wife’s sails. Dropping her laptop into her bag and hitching it over her shoulder, she had a last check around the apartment. Deciding more obvious indication of a struggle was needed, she walked across to the occasional table the copper had stumbled into, hooked a hand under the top of it and sent it crashing to the floor. His prints would be all over it. Try explaining your way out of that one. The whisky glass she’d made sure his prints were on once he’d passed out wasn’t quite right either. Walking back towards the sofa where she’d parked it on the floor, she kicked that over onto its side spilling the contents, then perused the sofa and debated. Cushions, she thought, despairing of herself. They’d hardly be still neatly fluffed up in corners now, would they? Plucking them up, she tossed them arbitrarily back down, leaving them where they landed. That was better.

Satisfied that the scene was set to fit her telling of events when she gave her statement, stoically recounting details of Adams’ drunken assault on her, she turned back to the front door and picked up her suitcase. She needed to be out of the apartment fast. This would be his first port of call once he was compos, which he probably was by now, and Jasmine didn’t particularly want to be around to greet him. He’d remember being here. Beyond that he’d recall only sketchy images the supplier – who wouldn’t dare blab for fear of Tony collecting his debt, starting with his testicles – had assured her. Even once the drugs were out of his system – all traces disappearing if he didn’t get tested quickly – Adams wouldn’t be able to clearly recall events, she’d also been reliably informed, meaning he’d be well and truly stuffed. Perfect.

Humming, as she pressed the call lift button, Jasmine pondered what the heroic copper’s state of health would be this morning. She hoped he was suffering. And if he wasn’t, he soon would be. Oh, how he would. Jasmine was going to enjoy bringing Adams to his knees.

Twirling her hair around her finger as she waited for the lift to arrive, she imagined what might be going through his disorientated mind. He’d be panicked, obviously, desperately trying to remember what he’d done to get blood on his hands. Would he be worrying about his poor, perfect little family? Wondering what might be going through their minds? What his precious daughters were going to do without their father to provide for them? Jasmine doubted it. Doubted he cared about anyone. More likely, he was only worried about his own skin, imagining what kind of welcome he’d get from the crims he’d arrested when he was banged up behind bars with them. Good. She hoped he was scared shitless.

Jasmine’s buoyant mood evaporated, however, as, stepping into the lift, she managed to get the wheels of her suitcase wedged in the well between the landing and lift doors. ‘Come on. Bloody thing!’ She pulled it, yanked at it, and ended up twisting her wrist. Finally, fuming, she kicked it, a sharp pain shooting through her toe stretching her temper to snapping point. The copper’s fault, she seethed, swiping her hair from her face as the lift doors closed. All of it. Her future plans, utterly destroyed. Her baby. Everything. All his fault. He was going to pay for that, the bastard.

Composing herself as she reached the ground floor, Jasmine stepped into the foyer, relieved to find Connor waiting patiently in the car outside, as instructed. It was handy having him imagining he was her boyfriend. As if he ever stood any chance of being anything beyond useful. Checking his car was the only one in evidence, she headed towards it, throwing her suitcase onto the back seat and hopping into the front.

‘Drive,’ she said, yanking the sun visor down and checking her contact lenses in the mirror. She’d almost poked her eyes out putting them in when Ashley had Skyped her. Jasmine doubted they’d ever seen her as she really was, but even with her features tweaked, pleasingly so, and her lips plumped, it wouldn’t have been a smart move to be seen without those.

‘Drive where?’ Connor asked, starting the engine and glancing towards her.

Her eyes flicking towards him, Jasmine noted he looked as guilty as sin, even though he wasn’t yet aware of the events that had unfolded after he’d scarpered last night. His protestations regarding her failure to deliver on her sex in the car promise had soon been forgotten when she’d told him Adams was, in fact, coming round. She’d only been halfway through telling him she and her friend would deal with it, when she’d heard Connor fire up his engine, the big wuss.

He’d rallied a bit when she’d rung him this morning telling him she’d make up for it, meaning she would have to deliver, she supposed. She needed him, unfortunately, onside and pliable.

‘How about your place?’ she suggested, smiling coquettishly and leaning in to tiptoe her fingers lightly up his thigh.

Taking a huge breath, Connor looked up at the roof upholstery, as she found her target and gently squeezed. ‘Can’t,’ he squeaked, sounding as if he was being asphyxiated.

‘Why not?’ Jasmine asked breathily, her lips working seductively on his ear.

Connor’s shoulders slumped. ‘Me mum’s in.’

His … What? Unhanding him, Jasmine pulled back and gawped at him. ‘You are joking, aren’t you, Connor?’ she asked him uncertainly. ‘You still live with your mother?’

Connor’s shoulders sagged further. ‘She’s not well,’ he said defensively, his cheeks colouring up. ‘Hasn’t been since my dad left.’

‘But …’ Jasmine was struggling with this. She’d assumed he was sharing, but with his mother? ‘When did he leave?’ she asked, imagining it to be a recent event, since his mother clearly couldn’t move on.

His big hands still clamped on the steering wheel, Connor shrugged awkwardly. ‘When I was ten.’

Jasmine’s eyes boggled. ‘Ten?’

‘She gets down. Needs looking out for. I’m all she’s got.’ Connor paused, now dragging the back of a hand under his nose.

Oh, shit. Jasmine stifled a laugh. The woman’s husband pisses off and Connor’s all she’s got. No wonder she’s depressed.

Hmm? Jasmine furrowed her brow contemplatively. Far from being an inconvenience, Connor having a clingy depressive mother, who would probably hang herself if her son were found to be involved in serious criminal activity, it might just be useful. He wasn’t likely to want her to find out what he’d been up to, was he?

‘Well, I think that’s quite nice,’ she offered sympathetically.

Connor’s hopeful gaze twanged in her direction. ‘You do?’

‘I do.’ Jasmine nodded adamantly, hooking an arm through his and giving it a squeeze. ‘It’s shows strength and compassion.’

‘It does?’ Connor sounded doubtful.

‘Definitely,’ Jasmine assured him. ‘A man who looks after the women in his life is a real man in my book.’ She moved to plant a kiss on his cheek. ‘Come on, let’s drive.’

Fastening her seatbelt, Jasmine checked around for signs of Adams, who might show up at any minute. His car was still here, which meant he’d either be on foot or in a taxi, but show up he would. And it wasn’t only his car he’d be looking for.

‘Where to?’ Connor repeated, sounding more chipper.

And definitely malleable, Jasmine thought happily. Like putty in her hands.

‘The woods.’ She indicated the open woodland bordering the apartments. ‘Let’s find a nice secluded spot, shall we?’

No neighbours, Matthew recalled that much, which meant he’d have to force an entry. And no doubt be picked up by the security camera in the foyer while he was at it, he realised, which might look like he was attempting to tamper with evidence. He couldn’t afford for that to happen, couldn’t afford to be picked up on camera full stop.

Shit! He needed to find another way. He needed to get inside that apartment. If there was any chance of finding traces of the drugs he’d been pumped full of, he needed to do it now. Pulling his hand away from the entry phone system, he noticed he still had a bad case of the shakes. Despite attempting to freshen up in a garage toilet, he also looked like death, and obvious, still wearing his wedding jacket. He shouldn’t be hanging around outside here, where he might be seen.

That video was part of some sick plot to involve him in something much more worrying, that much was clear. Recalling the blood spatters, the thin trickle of blood washing over the spider as it swirled down the plughole, Matthew felt a fresh wave of panic clutch at his insides. He had no way of knowing whether events had taken a new twist either, whether there might be a manhunt already underway, meaning they would be trying to track him via CCTV generally, as well as GPS signals and Smartpay devices. Number plate recognition, too. Dammit. He glanced towards his car still parked outside the apartments.

There would already be footage, of course, he realised. The foyer camera would have picked him up entering the building. Also leaving, which had definitely not been under his own steam. That was something he needed to get hold of. And fast. There might also be footage of the incident after the wedding reception, which could substantiate his story of why he had taken the girl home and then decided to go in with her.

Why the hell had he? On his own? he asked himself for the millionth time as he walked around the building looking for possible ways in. Because he’d been a bloody idiot, not following protocol. More often than not, he was infuriated by the red tape and ‘Duty of Care’ crap they had to abide by. Sometimes, though, that protocol was there for their own protection. And he, being a law unto himself, had decided to flaunt it.

Cursing his stupidity, Matthew tried various ground floor windows, checking for cameras as he went and feeling very much like a criminal. Finding no conveniently accessible windows – did he really expect there to be? – he dragged his hand exasperatedly through his hair and turned to head back towards the front of the building, and then stopped and ducked back.

Seeing the Residential Floorings van pull up in front of the foyer, he thanked God for one small mercy, and quickly considered his options. Guessing he had none, other than to front it out and hope they fell for it, he gave the fitters time to access the back of the van and then walked up to the foyer door after them, messing up his hair and making sure to look the worse for wear as he went. He really didn’t have to try too hard at that.

‘Cheers, mate,’ the guy on the backend of the roll of carpet they were carrying thanked him, as Matthew reached to hold the door for him. And then, noting Matthew’s attire, ‘Late night?’ he asked him, with a knowing smirk.

Matthew raised his eyebrows and smiled tiredly – he didn’t have to try at that either. ‘Very,’ he said, feigning a yawn and following the man in.

Reaching the apartment, Matthew checked for cameras and then, ringing the doorbell several times first, decided to gain access the only way he could and forced the front door. Pausing briefly in the small, sparsely furnished hall, he listened for sounds of anyone home, and then went straight to the lounge – and stopped dead. Upturned table, he noted immediately, his heart sinking. Cushions strewn across the room. Matthew closed his eyes, an image of them neatly arranged in corners flashing blindingly through his mind. Abstract picture, hanging askew. He swallowed hard. One overturned tumbler, the stench from the puddle of spilled whisky next to it overpowering.

Jesus Christ. Fear, like icy fingers, clutched at his chest. Had he done this? Was it possible that he’d had some kind of alcoholic blackout?

No! Frantically he tried to remember. This is not what happened!

Nausea sweeping through him, Matthew headed to the bathroom and, using his jacket as some protection against fingerprints, he searched the cabinet, hoping against hope to find something, anything. Futilely, he went through drawers in the bedroom, kitchen cupboards, bins. Then, coming at last to a useless standstill back in the lounge, he dragged his hands over his face and turned full circle. She would have ‘cleaned up’. He’d guessed she would have done that, disposed of any items that might incriminate her. He hadn’t been sure whether he would find anything, any evidence of the cocktail of drugs she’d fed him would have been a small miracle. But he hadn’t expected to find this. Evidence that would damn him. Clear signs of a struggle, pointing to him having been aggressive.

‘Fuck!’ No. No way! Cursing, Matthew turned and headed fast for the front door.

Gulping back deep breaths as he hit fresh air, he attempted to quell his spiralling panic. He needed to think, try to get his facts straight. He most definitely needed any footage of him leaving that apartment. If anyone could get hold of that, as in be willing to dig around unofficially – Matthew prayed it hadn’t become official business yet – his former detective sergeant could. Aware from his earlier message that Steve had seen the video, Matthew reached for the pay as you go phone and thumbed in Steve’s number, and then braced himself.

‘Steve?’ he said when he picked up. ‘It’s—’

‘You prat!’ Steve said over him.

‘And some,’ Matthew agreed wholeheartedly, relieved to hear his friend’s gruff tones, despite his observations.

‘What the hell were you doing?’ Steve asked him, his tone a mixture of disbelief and astonishment.

‘Would you believe me if I said I had no idea?’ Feeling jaded to his very bones, Matthew dragged a hand over his neck and glanced up at the late summer sky as he walked, taking a second to realise how beautiful it was. He should have stopped before now, smelled the roses. Done what Steve had done after the Sullivan shit and got off the force. Steve had been shot. Shot down like a dog, trying to help him, risking his own job in the process, risking his life. Becky had almost been murdered. Driven close to insanity by the psychopath’s sickening taunting, his filthy hands touching her, sliding all over her. Seeing again the symbolic red stilettos the sick freak had forced his wife to wear, one of which Ashley had wedged in the bastard’s temple, Matthew’s thoughts went off at a tangent, his recollection now not of the red stilettos, but of the long, spiked heel of one silver shoe pressing into his own. One of Jasmine’s shoes? His hand moving to his forehead, Matthew found a small indentation there and groped desperately for more than a fleeting memory. Nothing. Any recollection he did have he couldn’t be sure weren’t fragments snatched from his nightmares.

‘Your claim to fame, was it?’ Steve suggested drolly.

‘Infamy, more like,’ Matthew said despondently. He had to fill him in, he realised. He’d have no way forward without Steve’s help, therefore no choice but to bare his bloody soul and admit what a weak specimen of manhood he was. ‘I wasn’t there willingly, Steve,’ he admitted, shame – which seemed to be his constant shadow – washing over him again.

‘Oh?’ Steve sounded dubious at best.

Realising there was no way to tell it other than the way it was, Matthew steeled himself, then, ‘I was drugged, Steve,’ he said simply, and paused, guessing it would take a second for Steve to glean the implication of that revelation.

‘Drugged?’ Steve spluttered incredulously, after a second. ‘You mean …?’

‘Unwilling,’ Matthew admitted, his throat tight. ‘There’s no way I would go out looking for it, Steve. You must know me well enough to know that.’

‘You mean, as in …’ Steve stopped, as if he couldn’t quite get his head around it.

‘Rohypnol,’ Matthew supplied, now feeling acutely embarrassed, and very aware of how a victim of sexual assault might feel having to reveal that in a soulless interview room. ‘Something else in there, obviously.’

‘Shit!’ Steve emitted a long, slow whistle. ‘Do you know who?’ he asked, sounding less incredulous. ‘I mean presumably it wasn’t the hooker? Unless she was planning on early retirement and full board in a nice cosy cell?’

He believed him. Thank Christ. Overwhelming relief sweeping through him, Matthew closed his eyes and nodded. ‘I think so, yes,’ he said hoarsely, ‘but—’

‘You need to get your arse into the station,’ Steve cut in determinedly. ‘I’m assuming you haven’t already gone in, as the delightful DCI Davies has just rung here looking for you. You need to get tested, Matt. Now. The drug only stays in the system for—’

‘I can’t,’ Matthew stated adamantly.

‘Right.’ Steve didn’t sound impressed. ‘Would you like to explain?’

If only he could. Matthew braced himself to get to the point of the call. ‘There’s more to it. Than the video, I mean.’

‘Such as?’ Steve sounded wary.

Matthew hesitated. ‘Blood,’ he said quietly. ‘In the bed. The bath. Spatters on the walls. Pretty much everywhere.’

Steve didn’t answer straightaway, causing a fresh wave of panic to grip Matthew’s insides. If Steve didn’t help him on this … ‘Not yours, I take it?’ he asked, eventually.

‘Not mine, no. I have minor injuries though, scratches,’ Matthew answered honestly.

Steve paused again. Matthew guessed he was finding this hard to digest. ‘Where?’

‘Torso and neck. Caused by fingernails, at a guess. Deeper gouges to the face: cheek, left hand side.’ Again Matthew answered honestly, which was probably going to make his next statement seem totally implausible. ‘I didn’t do it, Steve. Whatever violence went on in that room, I didn’t do it.’ At least, not with his knowledge he hadn’t. Matthew swallowed hard on that thought.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Steve said immediately. ‘The question is how the hell did you get yourself into it?’ Matthew heard his frustrated intake of breath. ‘Look, forget that,’ Steve went on. ‘You’ve said. Whatever, you need to go in and get tested. Immediately, Matt. There will only be residual amounts in your system as it is. The drugs will be virtually undetectable if fluid samples aren’t taken. They won’t get anything from hair samples yet. You know this. I shouldn’t have to be telling you.’

‘I can’t,’ Matthew repeated, forcefully. ‘Not yet.’

‘Oh, for …’ Steve sounded exasperated now.

‘Think about it, Steve. There’s a video out there, blood all over the room. The scratches, meaning there’s DNA evidence of … Christ knows what. I have no recollection that makes any sense. None. I need something before I go to the station. Anything. Do you honestly think this is going to stop here?’

Steve went quiet again. ‘Does sound a bit iffy,’ he offered at length.

Matthew almost reeled with relief. ‘It’s a set-up of some sort. I don’t know why. I don’t know what, but …’ he faltered, guessing what Steve’s reaction to his next claim might be ‘… I suspect it’s something to do with Sullivan.’

‘Oh, blimey, Matt …’ Steve sighed long and hard. ‘Not that, again. The man’s dead and buried, for Pete’s sake. He’s not a freakin’ ghost come back to haunt you.’

Matthew almost laughed at the irony of that statement. ‘Jasmine, the girl who drugged me—’

‘Who?’

‘Long story. I don’t have time, Steve, as you’ve just pointed out. There’s evidence of a struggle in her apartment.’

‘It gets better and better,’ Steve observed flatly.

‘It’s staged, Steve. I swear to God …’ Matthew trailed off, hoping that that’s what it was, because he couldn’t even begin to contemplate the alternative. ‘Look, the point is she removed one of her shoes.’

‘Seems like that’s not all she removed,’ was Steve’s dry retort.

He was entitled to that, Matthew supposed. ‘One shoe, Steve, a stiletto.’

‘And?’

‘She pressed the heel of it into my temple. Remind you of anything?’

Steve didn’t answer.

‘Not coincidence, Steve,’ Matthew insisted forcefully. ‘Not this time. No way.’

Still, Steve didn’t comment.

‘Steve?’ Matthew prayed again hard, willing him to believe that the possibility of a link was there, however ludicrous it might seem. Because if what Matthew suspected was right, then he definitely wasn’t the only target, and that thought scared him above anything else.

‘What do you need?’ Steve had obviously mulled it over and conceded the possibility.

Offering up a prayer of gratitude, Matthew blew out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in. ‘CCTV footage for starters,’ he supplied. ‘There are security cameras in the foyer of her apartment building. I’m guessing I came out the same way I went in.’

‘Not quite,’ Steve pointed out.

Matthew’s mouth twitched into a small smile. ‘The same from the wedding reception we were at last night. I’m hoping the hotel will have security cameras overlooking the car park. There was an incident, an argument. The girl’s boyfriend lashed out and—’

‘You intervened.’ Steve sighed exasperatedly. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

Matthew could almost see him rolling his eyes. ‘He knows me so well,’ he joked weakly.

‘Unfortunately,’ Steve grumbled. ‘The bloke’ll be the death of me, I swear.’

It was Matthew’s turn to go quiet then.

‘No pun intended,’ Steve added, sounding apologetic, as if he ever needed to. ‘So, names?’ he said, quickly glossing over the fact that Matthew had almost been the death of him. ‘Jasmine what and who? I take it you want me to do some digging around?’

Matthew sighed inwardly. Kneading his forehead with the heel of his hand, he scrambled through his dysfunctional brain and came up with nothing. No surnames. Dammit. ‘The boyfriend’s called Connor. They’re both students at the college. I don’t have surnames, sorry.’

‘Good job I’m an ex-detective then, innit?’ Steve quipped. ‘Right, well, ID shouldn’t be a problem. Getting access to the CCTV footage might be a bit tricky.’ He thought about it for a second, then, ‘I’ll chat up DS Collins.’

Again, Matthew felt a huge surge of relief. Jamie Collins had been majorly unimpressed with him once. She’d been undercover, covertly collecting information regarding Sullivan’s drug dealings. Matthew’s ‘obsession’ with Sullivan had jeopardised the operation. Provoked by Sullivan, whose continual gibes every time Matthew encountered him had turned to new threats aimed at his family, Matthew had lost it big time and beat the piece of scum to a pulp, meaning a charge was made against him. Investigations pending, he was suspended, which is exactly what Sullivan had wanted. Jamie was pulled, and subsequently she’d made it pretty obvious she thought Matthew was a complete waste of space.

She’d been sympathetic once she’d realised his ‘obsession’, his insistence that Sullivan had been responsible for his daughter’s death, was founded. Becky being kidnapped and tortured had helped sway her opinion. She’d been there for him ever since, on his team, even confiding that the experience had taught her a lesson, reminding her not to judge someone guilty, no matter how damning things looked.

‘Good idea,’ he said, hoping Jamie knew him well enough not to judge him now.

‘Yeah, not sure the missus will think so,’ Steve replied worriedly. ‘She’ll probably reserve a spot for me in the dog kennels. She’ll chop bits of me off and feed them to the dogs if she knows I’m going anywhere near the force, let alone chatting up a female member thereof.’

‘Sorry, Steve.’ Matthew felt bad for him. Lindsey would definitely give him one of her killer looks but Matthew doubted she’d actually chop him up. They’d worked hard building up the dog kennels though, renovating it from rundown, which hadn’t been easy for Steve, whose spinal injury still gave him trouble. The last thing Matthew wanted to do was jeopardise anything for him. ‘I wouldn’t ask, but …’

‘Not a problem. I’ll bat my beautiful eyes at her and limp a bit. She’ll soon come round.’

Matthew couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Who could resist?’

‘Talking of Lindsey, she’s just back from dog walking,’ Steve said, lowering his voice. ‘I’ll get on this pronto. You going to give me a number, or you going to ring back?’

‘I’ll ring back,’ Matthew assured him. ‘Steve, one more thing.’

‘Yes?’ Steve’s tone was back to wary.

‘Wheels,’ Matthew said hesitantly. ‘I’m thinking it’s not a good idea to use my car and I hoped you’d, er—’

‘Consider it done,’ Steve said straight up. ‘Give me half an hour and then give me a ring and I’ll meet you. I’ll bring a rental. Oh, and I’ll bring you a bottle to piss in while I’m at it.’

‘So eloquent.’ Matthew smiled and signed off, grateful he had someone he could confide in who wouldn’t assume he’d finally flipped completely. It had taken an awful lot of persuading to convince his supervising officers he was capable of doing his job when his psych report had come back borderline.