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“Trent Barnard didn’t leave prison in 2016. The police discovered two more bodies.” Tarant pulled out a chair and slumped into it. He accepted the coffee Lexi pushed across the table towards him.
“While they incarcerated him?” She jerked her chin backwards. “How could he kill someone from inside a prison?”
“They were cold cases. Missing women pre-dating Liza’s disappearance. Same method of killing the women. And they rechecked the original evidence and matched it with his DNA. Some smart detective put the pieces together, and the jury found Barnard guilty.”
“Wait, what?” Lexi held up her hand to halt his information dump. “A jury trial? So, Barnard pleaded not guilty to the other murders? Why would he do that when he accepted responsibility for Liza’s death?”
“Dunno.” Tarant didn’t sound much like he cared. “Apparently, he behaved in prison and had passed the parole board requirements. They were all set to release him when the cops laid the additional charges. He went so nuts over it, the court ordered a psychiatric evaluation before the case could continue. It took another four years to get him into court. The jury found him guilty. He got a sentence of thirty years minimum before parole.”
“When did this happen?” Lexi paced the floor of her kitchen. Nahla watched her from a high cupboard. The cat narrowed her eyes and pricked her ears at Lexi’s frustrated behaviour.
Tarant sighed. “Three years ago. Barnard married his first wife young. She was ten years older than him. He’s been in prison since he was thirty-three. Another thirty years, starting from 2020, means he won’t get out until his best years are past. If he’s lucky. It’s a weird thought, isn’t it?” He stared up at Lexi with wide, unblinking eyes. “Imagine spending your entire life in prison and coming out as an old man. How would you cope?”
Lexi sat opposite him. She released a giant exhale. “This is messed up,” she concluded. “There’s more to this. We need to speak to Samuel Barnard. Something about that photograph triggered him enough to hire a private detective. We need to know what he wants from us.”
Tarant rested his elbows on the table. He bowed his head and hissed through his teeth. His dark curls tumbled forward to shield his eyes. “About that,” he began, drawing out the words. Lexi tensed, awaiting the punchline. “I called his contact number earlier. The one he gave on the form. He hasn’t responded to any of my emails.” Tarant licked his lips but didn’t finish.
Lexi threw herself back in the chair. It rocked onto two legs before thudding against the floorboards. “Don’t tell me!” She raised a hand to ward off his stupidity. “Burner phone or wrong number?”
Tarant shrugged. “It just rang out, but no one replied.” He dropped his forehead into his arms. “I’m sorry, Lex. Everything’s slipping through my fingers. I can’t stop it.”
Lexi pursed her lips. Her mind flicked to a mental image of Delray’s smiling face. Her auburn pigtails stuck out at odd angles like wonky antennae. Delicate fingers plucked at her cardigan buttons. Lynn had used the child as a battering ram. She couldn’t have hurt Tarant more if she’d tried. Lexi dropped her chin and warded off the blanket of responsibility settling over her shoulders. She turned aside to avoid watching the handsome man crumble. “It gets worse.” She took a sledgehammer to the glass around his heart. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she heard Patrick Allen talking about being cruel to be kind. “Danny Fisher is off and running. I think Battersea’s wreaking vengeance on him.”
“How do you know?” Tarant frowned up at her.
Lexi pursed her lips. “I just do.” She couldn’t bear to admit her involvement with the con man or the fact he knew her address.
Tarant swore. He ran a hand over his face. Bristles scratched against his palm. “I don’t know how to bring this back from the brink, Lex. Maybe I should just give up.”
“And do what?” An icy finger crept along her spine. If Tarant wound up his business, it would leave her unemployed.
“Go back to being a cop, maybe.” But he didn’t sound sure. The hollowness remained in his eyes.
“Nice,” Lexi chided. “Imagine having Rojas as your supervisor during your probation. I’m guessing they don’t just shove you in a uniform and throw you back onto the streets?”
Tarant’s features crumpled as though he’d sucked on a lemon. “I used to run the best agency in the city. What’s happened to me?”
Lexi sighed. “You dropped the ball, dude. So, pick it back up again. Let’s find out what the deal is with Trent Barnard. Then see what happens.”
They spent the next two hours inspecting every square millimetre of the photograph. Lexi sat beside Tarant at the kitchen table, poring over the screen. Their arms and elbows touched, forcing her to ignore the frisson of attraction, which constantly nudged her senses. When she could stand it no longer, she rose and switched to trawling Facebook on her phone.
“What if I message Sam Barnard?” She glanced up at Tarant. “Explain who I am and ask him more questions about his case. What do you think?”
“Are you using a dummy profile?” Tarant lifted his right eyebrow and studied her. His brown irises had retreated to a muddy hazel as exhaustion settled over him.
“Of course!” Lexi lied. “I’m not a rookie anymore!”
“Then do it.” He gave a definitive nod and returned to the screen. He tutted at something as Lexi’s fingers coursed across her digital keypad. She sent a message to the Sam Barnard profile and settled in for another long wait.
Lexi finished and leaned her hip against the kitchen counter. She studied Tarant’s bowed head and let her mind run. It sifted through the scattered snippets of evidence like a bargain shopper at a jumble sale. “When did Liza Barnard die?” she asked, her tone lazy.
“May 1995,” Tarant replied. “I read a few digitised newspaper articles on the Papers Past website. The coroner couldn’t state the exact date of her death with any certainty because of the decomposition of Liza’s body. A decade is a long time in the ground.”
“But that photo is significant to Samuel Barnard,” Lexi mused. “And my brother dated it around Pentecost because of the priest’s vestments.” She lifted her phone again. “I wonder if I can find the date for Pentecost in 1995.”
“You can find anything on Google,” Tarant mused. He leaned close enough to the laptop screen for his fringe to collect static.
“Oh.” Lexi finished scrolling and slouched into her chair. “Well, this is weird. Pentecost in 1995 fell on Sunday 4th of June.” She pointed at the screen. “But that photo says May 1995. Do you think the date is incorrect?”
Tarant groaned. He rolled his shoulders. “So, either the year is wrong or the month?”
Lexi searched her phone again. “It fell on 22nd May in 1994, and 26th May in 1996.” She exhaled. “Garima’s right. It is usually in May.”
“Message the woman who called you?” Tarant suggested. “Ask who wrote the date on the photo in case it’s significant.”
Lexi complied, though she doubted Joanne would respond. As an afterthought, she added a question about her profile’s security. She threw out the bait and hoped Joanne would at least reply to that. She’d already shown a spirit of curiosity in contacting Lexi at all.
“I’m bushed.” Tarant leaned back and lifted his arms above his head. “Can I stay here for tonight?” His tone held a pleading edge. It tugged at the familiar weak point in Lexi’s heart. She imagined another time when he’d stayed over. Darts of pleasure zapped from her stomach to her groin. Tarant was a great lover, practiced and generous. They’d made love so many times, Lexi couldn’t sit down the next day.
“I don’t know.” She dropped her chin to avoid his gaze. The sexual tension between them fizzed and crackled. She sensed she would weaken during the night if he stayed. His warm, lithe body would call to her, drawing her in like wool wound slowly into a ball. She’d spoken big words earlier, banishing him from her heart with apparent ease. Her honesty included frustration and pique, but she’d faked disinterest. Despite everything, she still loved him.
“Lex.” He whispered her name and his fingers snaked beneath her hair. Gentle kisses dotted her right cheek and pressed over the sensitive shell of her ear. Tarant’s ragged breaths matched the frantic pulse beat in her throat. Her fingers ached to touch him, to slip beneath his tee shirt and caress his downy, muscled chest. Indecent thoughts clouded her vision and sent her mind into a free-fall of pure need.
Lexi gave herself ten seconds to enjoy it. Ten seconds of satiating her own desire before the inevitable pain of rejection exploded in her heart. Like tearing the petals from a daisy, lust played games with her sanity.
She would.
She wouldn’t.
