DS Clarke knocked on the door, a little harder than he had meant to. He shook his hand to ease his reddened knuckles. The phone call with Suzanne had pissed him off. He’d given her the chance to do the right thing, and she’d thrown it back in his face. He needed more evidence to nail her, so he’d gone to the only place he could think.
The door cracked. Out peeked a short woman with curly grey hair, wearing thick glasses and a flowery blouse.
“Oh, good morning,” Clarke nodded. “Mrs Colliers, is it?”
“Morning.” Mrs Colliers looked him up and down before adding, “You must be looking for my husband.”
He smiled. “How could you tell? I’m not in uniform.”
“Oh, it doesn’t take much to spot one. I’ve been married to a detective for thirty-eight years, you know.” She stepped back and welcomed him in. “Would you like some tea? I’ve just put the kettle on.”
“Ah, thank you. That’d be nice.” Clarke looked around at the pictures on the walls. Children. Grandchildren. Even family dogs. Two Labradors galloped down the hallway at him, barking and jumping. Mrs Colliers shushed them and led them into the other room.
“They get ever-so-excited when people come round, you see. It doesn’t happen that often these days.”
Clarke wondered if this was his future. Children grown up and gone, a house full of memories with only pets to keep you company. Retirement. He couldn’t quite imagine it.
“I’ll just go and get the hubby,” she said. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Clarke sat down on one of the leather armchairs; it reminded him of the chair his old man had owned. He’d spent hours in that thing those final years. Just watching TV, doing the crossword. Simple things, but he had been happy.
“Well, good morning. This is a surprise, I must say.” Ex-Detective Colliers came into the room, arm outstretched to shake Clarke’s hand. He still had a full head of hair, although it was completely grey. His eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled. He was a jolly man, a trait which Clarke presumed had blossomed after his retirement from the police. Clarke stood up and greeted him.
“Sorry to intrude, Detective Colliers.”
“Oh, none of that. I’m just James these days.”
“James, then. I’m DS Clarke,” he grimaced as he heard how pretentious it sounded next to a retired detective. “Call me Anthony.”
“Great. So, what’s the reason for the swing-by, Anthony? I must say I’m intrigued, The only visits we usually get on a Saturday are from the milkman.” He sat across from Clarke in the other armchair, taking his cup of tea from his wife. “Thank you, darling.”
Clarke sat back. “I’m working a case at the moment — you’ve probably seen it on the news — missing girl, Teigan Walker?” He searched Collier’s face for recognition.
“Oh, yes, fourteen, isn’t she?” Colliers nodded knowingly. “Last I heard you reckoned she’d got caught up with some old perv? But then the bloke topped himself — is that right?” The jolliness was evaporating already, while the hint of cynicism was starting to seep through.
“That was our earlier theory, yes. But I’m actually here to talk to you — off the record — about Teigan’s mother, Suzanne Walker.” Clarke paused, waiting for a response. Colliers stayed silent, sipping his tea. “You remember her, then, I presume? Can you tell me about her father’s death?”
“Why are you interested in that old case, Sergeant? Shouldn’t you be focussing on finding Teigan?” He nodded towards the china cup on the coffee table. “Don’t let your tea get cold, by the way.”
Clarke obediently took another sip of his tea, placed the cup back down, and regained eye contact. “You were the lead on that case. Didn’t you feel there was more to it? I noticed in your notes you recorded ‘odd presentation’ from Suzanne. What did you think at the time?” Clarke took another gulp of tea, showing him that it was his turn to talk.
“I thought she was a young woman in shock. You’ve got to remember she was only nineteen. She was pregnant and had already lost her mother. Her odd behaviour could have been due to a number of things.”
“Guilt being one of them?” Clarke suggested.
“Perhaps.”
Clarke leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. “Can you talk me through it, please? I know that case is technically all wrapped up, but this one isn’t. And the only common factor is Suzanne Walker.”
Colliers stared at him, his eyebrows furrowing in thought. “Do you really suspect her of harming her daughter?”
Clarke paused, everything he knew so far flashing through his head. The argument. Teigan’s blood on the kitchen floor. Suzanne’s late arrival at work that day. The time it took for her to realise her daughter was missing. The lie about Steph. Her vendetta to expose Monty Shepherd. “Yes. She’s been under a lot of stress, and sometimes people lose it.”
Colliers took a deep breath in through his nose and stared out the window into the garden. He looked deep in thought for a few moments, before returning to meet Clarke’s gaze.
“Michael Walker was not a good man. He had an alcohol problem, which worsened after his wife died. He was a rather neglectful parent and had quite the temper. But, worst of all, he was abusive towards Suzanne.”
“In what way?” he asked, with the sinking feeling that he already knew the answer.
“She campaigns against child sexual exploitation now, doesn’t she?”
Clarke nodded. “Yes. She came into some money via premium bonds, and she used it to set up a charity to focus on exactly that.”
Colliers nodded knowingly. “Well, there’s your answer. After his death, Suzanne disclosed, in confidence, as she didn’t want her sister to know, that he had been sexually abusing her since she was twelve, once her mother was no longer around to protect her.”
He shuddered. It was horrific. A father doing that to his own daughter. A sickening thought struck him. “God, does that mean, Teigan? She’s not … his, is she?”
“No, no. The sick bastard stopped abusing Suzanne when she was fifteen because she was ‘too old’ for him by then.
Clarke shook his head in disgust, but was relieved that Teigan wasn’t a byproduct of incestual abuse. “Well, it’s fair to say Suzanne would have had strong motivation then, isn’t it?”
Colliers shuffled in his chair. “Look, as far as I understand, Michael Walker drank too much and choked on his own vomit.”
“Oh, come on,” Clarke sat forward, clasping his hands together above his knees. “The volume of alcohol in his system, plus the internal scratches — isn’t it possible he was forced? He was essentially drowned, James, from the inside out.”
“There are some discrepancies, yes. But not all cases are clear-cut. You should know that by now.” Colliers spoke with the wisdom of experience, reminding Clarke of how early he was in his own career. “There was no physical evidence to suggest Suzanne had anything to do with his death. If there were, I wouldn’t have ignored it. Yes, I could have started snooping around, digging deeper and whatnot. But I wasn’t going to drag the poor girl through hell as a suspect for her own father’s murder on top of everything else. What if I had been wrong?”
“But what if you were right?” Clarke leaned forward. “What if you were right, James?”
Colliers shrugged. “Then there’s one less risk to children out there because of Suzanne Walker.” With that, he sat back and finished off his tea.
“But …” Clarke’s mind was whirring with conspiracy. “If she did do it, it shows us what she is capable of.”
Colliers looked back at Clarke and smiled. “It shows she is capable of doing what she must to protect someone she loves. Are we not all capable of that, Anthony?”
He frowned as he pictured Kacey. What would he do to protect her? But that was different. “She was protecting herself. Obviously, it’s disgusting what he did, but there were other ways she could have gotten out. She should have come to the police.”
Colliers shook his head. “She wasn’t protecting herself — she was protecting her little sister.”
“Steph?”
He nodded. “That’s right. She was seven years younger than Suzanne and had just turned twelve at the time of her father’s death.” He raised his eyebrows at Clarke. Steph had been about to start experiencing the same abuse Suzanne had suffered at their father’s hands. So Suzanne had made sure that he never laid a finger on her.
“You see, Anthony, officially we must punish all crimes — anything that breaks our laws. But, unofficially, you have to learn what truly is criminal and what is actually for the greater good.”