Chapter Eighteen

He was taking a chance, breaking in. The likelihood of finding anything that might lead him to Becky here was slim, but Matthew had hoped to find something. What he’d found in the last few hours, up until now, was nothing. The house was pristine. Knowing Sullivan’s meticulousness, the madman got irked if even fresh air dared settle on his clothes, the cleaner was no doubt made to earn her money. Removing bloodstains from grouting, though, obviously wasn’t part of her job description. Whoever had attempted to scrub these stains out clearly hadn’t had the right tools.

Crouching by the side of the pool, Matthew examined the stains more closely, and then, noticing several strands of hair, felt himself reeling. Nausea grinding inside him, he immediately registered the colour: blonde, not Becky’s. Thank God. Relief flooding through him, Matthew carefully bagged the evidence and held it up to the light. Sullivan’s wife’s, he wondered? If not hers, then whose? And where was his wife? His daughter? A cold-blooded sadistic bastard the man might be, but Sullivan doted on his daughter. Matthew doubted any harm had come to her. Chelsea, however … In Sullivan’s eyes she’d be just a woman, therefore an object to be used for his pleasure and then disposed of when he felt inclined to move onto the next.

Matthew should call it in. Taking her obvious absence into account, the definite signs of injury to someone, evidently a female, he really had no choice, but how could he? Glancing out across the pool as he got to his feet, Matthew tried to think, and then almost had heart failure as his mobile echoed shrilly around the annexe.

Dammit. Matthew scrambled the phone from his pocket.

‘Adams?’ he answered curiously, having noted the caller was DCI Davies.

‘Brace yourself, DI Adams,’ Davies said stiffly. ‘I have some bad news.’

Matthew heard the words, but what Davies was saying refused to register straightaway. When it did, Matthew’s heart lurched violently.

‘When and where?’ He squeezed the words out, his stomach clenching as Davies gave him the details. ‘I’m on my way,’ he said, cutting the call.

How? It made no sense. Steve? What the hell were you doing? Matthew tried to get his head around it as he yanked open his car door and threw himself inside. What in God’s name had possessed him to wander through woodland in the dead of night? He’d been found by the river. Lying there for hours, apparently, losing Christ knew how many litres of blood.

Matthew tightened his grip on the wheel. Shaking his head, physically trying to oust the image of Lily, her lifeblood seeping into the road, of Becky desperately trying to hold back the tears for their little girl’s sake, he groped frantically in his pockets for his inhaler. Taking two sharp puffs, his lights and sirens going and volubly cursing any other road user who got in his way, Matthew headed erratically to the hospital.

This was Sullivan. It had to be. Matthew rammed his foot down hard. The man was losing it, becoming more and more unpredictable, yet predictable: detached from reality, cold and calculatingly violent, caring nothing for his victims. Bastard! Rage, compounded by guilt, wedged itself like a stone in Matthew’s chest. He could have stopped him, stopped this happening. If only he’d called it in when he’d taken Becky, called his bluff, he might have … signed his wife’s death warrant. His other victims aside, if Sullivan had done this, if the blood on the grouting meant what Matthew suspected it did, then he would have no hesitation inflicting the same sort of punishment, as the twisted psycho saw it, on Rebecca. Punishment that was meant for him, Matthew had no doubt about that.

He’d given him no evidence, no sign at all that she was still alive. Nothing.

Matthew dragged a hand over his face, and then hit the brakes as his phone rang, causing a cacophony of car horns to blast around him. Careering the car to the side of the road, he stared at his hands-free. Another new number, unregistered obviously. Trepidation snaking its way down his spine, Matthew picked up the call.

‘Grace,’ Sullivan immediately supplied the baby’s name Matthew had asked for. ‘Make sure you have the funds ready to transfer. I’ll call back. Oh, and, Adams, I’m guessing you know I mean business now, yes?’

It had never really bothered Matthew that much before: the antiseptic smell of the hospital wards, the sterile surroundings. Interviewing victims of crime, he coped, generally. His jaw tightened as his mind leapt to Natalie, to Brianna. It was bothering him now, though. Approaching the resuscitation room doors, Matthew stopped, as DCI Davies stepped through them into the corridor, his expression grim.

‘Any ideas what he was up to?’ he asked, nodding behind him.

Feeling sick to his soul, Matthew glanced down. ‘I think I might have an idea, yes,’ he admitted. The force would be all over it once he told the whole story. Matthew knew they needed to be for the sake of their colleague, and for the sake of their sanity. He had nothing to go on, other than instinct, but that instinct was screaming at him that Steve had been doing what any good copper would do, covering a fellow officer’s back.

DCI Davies arched an eyebrow. ‘I think you’d better share.’

He looked Matthew over warily, and then scowled as his phone commanded his attention. ‘Davies?’ he snapped into it. ‘Right. Right.’

Ending the call, he looked gravely back at Matthew. ‘I need to get back to the station, try to calm a few tempers. They’re baying for blood on this one. My office, DI Adams, pronto,’ he instructed and headed past him towards the exit.

Wrestling with his emotions, Matthew braced himself and went on through the swing doors. Eyeing the doctor in attendance questioningly, he nodded towards Steve, who was immobilised and hooked up to every conceivable monitor available.

The doctor nodded back, offering him a smile of commiseration.

‘How is he?’ Matthew asked, gulping back a hard lump in his throat as he noted his sergeant’s pallid complexion, the livid bruising to his forehead and heavy dressing on his chest.

Her expression concerned, the doctor walked across to him.

‘Not good,’ she said. ‘His ribs are broken. The pleural lining of the left lung is damaged. We’ve relieved the pneumothorax with a cannula.’ She indicated the chest drain. ‘The good news is the debris missed his major blood vessels by a centimetre. The bad news is the thoracic spine may have been damaged.’

‘Fuck.’ Matthew felt his heart shift in his chest.

‘We’ll know more once a detailed examination has been carried out.’

‘Which involves?’

‘Well, he’s drifting in and out of consciousness. Once he’s fully conscious we’ll be able to do an initial neurological evaluation, including testing reflexes, muscle function, sensitivity to touch …’

Trying to take it in, Matthew nodded. ‘The spinal cord?’ he asked, his voice catching in his throat.

‘Possibly compromised. We’re not sure at this juncture.’

‘Right.’ Matthew tugged in a breath and focussed his gaze on the overhead lighting.

‘Once we’ve assessed spontaneous motion of the extremities, we’ll have a clearer picture,’ she offered sympathetically, then turned away to give Matthew some space.

Matthew had only ever cried once in public, when he’d knelt by his daughter’s side and a part of him had died with her. He felt like crying now, though. The man was about to get married. Christ, where was the justice? Bowing his head, Matthew pressed his thumb and forefinger hard against his eyes, then looked up sharply as Steve groaned.

‘Doctor!’ Panic-struck, Matthew stepped towards him, catching hold of Steve’s arm as he attempted to pull the mask from his face. ‘Shit. Steve, don’t …’

Steve was trying to say something, mouthing something. ‘Home,’ he finally rasped.

‘You can go home soon, Mr Ingram.’ The doctor glanced worriedly at Matthew as she struggled to reattach the mask to his face.

Steve, though, continued to fight her. ‘Becky,’ he croaked, her name barely a whisper as his eyes fluttered closed.

‘Start talking, DI Adams,’ DCI Davies demanded, on his feet immediately when Matthew came into his office. ‘What the hell was your detective sergeant doing wandering around muddy riverbanks in the middle of the night?’

‘I’m not a hundred per cent certain.’ Matthew ran a hand over his neck, feeling jaded to his very bones.

‘Well, get certain!’ DCI Davies eyed him furiously, as he stormed past him to close his office door. ‘Did you know he’d withdrawn evidence from forensics?’

Matthew nodded. ‘Yes.’ He sighed heavily.

‘Well?’ Walking back, DCI Davies urged him on. ‘Evidence appertaining to what, Matthew? What in God’s name is this all about?’

Apprehensively, Matthew searched the man’s face. Would he believe him, or would he go off on some high-profile attempt to corroborate his story, alerting Sullivan and driving him to do God only knew what? Whatever his reaction Matthew knew he had no choice. A police officer had been shot, and that was down to him. Steeling himself, he took another breath, then, ‘Sullivan,’ he said, his heart constricting as he realised that now he’d started there could be no turning back, possibly no hope of getting Becky back.

‘Sullivan?’ DCI Davies eyeballed him incredulously. ‘I don’t bloody believe this. You mean to say you roped Steve into …’ He stopped, his gaze moving past Matthew, as his office door flew open.

‘Oh, for Pete’s sake, what?’ he snapped as DS Jamie Collins hovered uncertainly.

‘Good news.’ DS Collins’ glance was none too friendly as it fell on Matthew. ‘We’ve found Steve’s car; partial fingerprint too, not Steve’s.’

‘Well, don’t just stand there! Get on it, for pity’s sake!’ Davies barked.

‘We are. Right now, sir. There’s something else though.’ DS Collins paused indecisively.

‘Well?’ Davies asked tersely.

‘I, er, have the information on my desk, sir.’ DS Collins glanced guardedly at Matthew again and then nodded towards the outer office.

‘Right.’ DCI Davies got the gist, as did Matthew. His presence clearly wasn’t required. ‘Show me,’ Davies said. ‘And you,’ he said, turning back to Matthew, wearing his don’t-test-me expression, ‘wait right there.’

Sighing agitatedly, Matthew did as ordered. He should be in on this, for Steve’s sake. Tugging his shirt collar loose, he checked his watch, agonisingly aware of the passing of time. Sullivan had supplied the information Matthew had needed, information that could only have come from Becky. But when had she given him that information? Matthew still couldn’t be sure she was unharmed and he wasn’t about to stand around here, doing nothing.

Determinedly, he walked to the door. He needed to be out there, ready to make the transaction, to do whatever Sullivan instructed him to. While there was even the slightest chance she might still be … Matthew’s thoughts trailed off, as yet another flashback of Lily, lying still and cold on the mortuary slab, flashed through his mind. He clamped his eyes closed, yet the graphic images still assailed him. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t cope.

Couldn’t breathe.

Scrambling through his pockets for his inhaler, Matthew turned back to the desk. Dropping heavily onto the edge of it, he inhaled sharply, air rattling into his lungs as he did. He could actually hear it. Christ, he was so fucking useless.

Burying his head in his hands, Matthew tried to compose himself, to stay in control. Control? He laughed scornfully. Who did he think he was kidding? Sullivan was holding the cards here, all of them. He knew it. Knew that Matthew knew it. He’d done everything Sullivan had asked him, and more. He’d been a coward, dancing to the madman’s tune instead of taking him out in the only way he realistically could have before now. He’d screwed up, big time, risked Becky’s life, risked Steve’s.

Guilt and anger clawing at his insides, Matthew continued to wait, his breathing steadying, mercifully, as his DCI swung back into the office, DS Collins close behind him.

Matthew got to his feet immediately.

‘I need to go,’ he started, and then stopped as Davies held up a quieting hand, his expression grim.

‘Michael Sullivan,’ he said as Matthew glanced questioningly between him and Collins, ‘his body’s been found on the river bank.’

Sullivan’s father? Trying to assimilate, Matthew stared at him askance, then, ‘Dead?’ he asked, disbelieving.

‘As the proverbial dodo,’ DCI Davies replied dourly.

Goosebumps ran the length of Matthew’s spine. ‘How?’

‘Natural causes, it appears, if you can call choking on your liver natural causes; with one small incongruity.’

‘Which is?’ Panic knotted Matthew’s stomach as his mind processed the information. Two people found by the river, one dead, one close to? Clearly, they were linked. Clearly also, that link was Sullivan.

‘No mud on his shoes,’ DCI Davies supplied.

Which meant the body had been moved? Matthew’s blood ran cold at the implications of what that might mean. Michael Sullivan had been chauffeur-driven wherever he went. He probably was this time, by his loving son, whose adulation of his father was nil. Patrick Sullivan had been walking a fine line between outward normality and complete insanity all his life. Matthew had seen it first hand, for years. His brother’s death had tipped him over the edge and, God help her, the animal had Becky in his filthy clutches.

‘This case you had Steve working on,’ Davies asked as Matthew’s thoughts raced through all sorts of scenarios. ‘Could this be why Patrick Sullivan decided on some sort of retribution? I assume it was something to do with your attack on the man and the subsequent accusations you—’

‘He has my wife,’ Matthew cut in quietly.

Davies stared at him, uncomprehending for a second, then, ‘Becky?’ he asked, now looking as if he’d been struck by a thunderbolt.

‘He’s … taken her.’ Matthew was struggling to hold it together, to contain his fury as he recalled Sullivan’s gilded threats. Threats which Matthew had reported, only to be told he was being paranoid.

‘You’re joking,’ DS Jamie Collins gasped incredulously.

Feeling very close to losing it now, Matthew swept furious eyes over her. ‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ he snapped, and then turned back to Davies. ‘He … has … my … wife!’

Galvanised into action, DCI Davies took a step towards him, placing a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. ‘Okay, calm down, Matthew. Just try to remain rational. What does he want?’ He nodded towards DS Collins as he spoke, indicating she should go through to the main office.

To get the ball rolling and mobilise all available bodies, Matthew assumed. A ball that could career out of control and lose him the woman he loved more than his life. No way. No way! ‘Calm down?’ he repeated, his anger mounting dangerously inside him. ‘Remain rational?’ He pushed the man’s hand away from him. ‘The fucking maniac has Becky! He’s a murdering psychopath and you tell me to keep calm?’

DCI Davies exchanged wary glances with DS Collins, as once again she hesitated uncertainly. ‘I presume he’s offered some trade-off?’ he asked, clearly determined to remain rational where Matthew couldn’t hope to be.

‘Yes, he’s offered a trade-off,’ he spat satirically. ‘He wanted evidence pulled. Steve pulled it. Because I ordered him to, by the way, no questions asked. He wanted Steve off a case he was working on, a case that has links with the murder of Brianna Phillips and several others, indicating we have a serial killer. Guess who the prime suspect is? He wants money. Of course he wants money, every penny I have and he’ll get it, but do you honestly think he’s going to let Becky go?’

‘Right.’ Nodding slowly DCI Davies walked around to his desk. ‘He’s called you with his demands then, obviously?’

‘Yes. Unregistered phones, obviously,’ Matthew stated flatly, as if he needed to.

Sitting down, DCI Davies nodded again, clasping his hands tightly in front of him.

‘We can still pinpoint the phone using call triangulation,’ DS Collins suggested, her expression now sympathetic as she looked at Matthew. ‘If you keep him—’

‘No,’ Matthew cut in categorically.

DS Collins stopped, glancing in concern from Matthew to Davies.

‘If he gets even a sniff of uniforms crawling all over this he will kill her,’ Matthew stated, as if he needed to spell that out, given what they now knew. What he’d always known. Assuming he hadn’t already killed her that was. Matthew gulped back a sick taste in his throat.

DCI Davies took in a deep breath. ‘Matthew,’ he started carefully, ‘I know how you feel, but—’

‘You have no fucking idea how I feel! None!’

‘No,’ Davies conceded, his look a mixture of contrition and concern. ‘No I don’t, but …’ He glanced again at DS Collins. ‘… you can’t do this on your own, Matthew. I can’t let you. We have to—’

‘He killed my daughter!’ Matthew took a step towards him, slammed his hands hard on the desk. ‘He killed her, John. I know it. You know it.’ He locked eyes with the man, his meaning, he hoped, implicit, and then turned for the door. ‘I have to go.’

Pulling the door open, he walked out without looking back. The silence in the outer office was palpable this time, heavy, guilt-ridden. Matthew walked on, guilt weighing heavy in his own chest. Every single one of the officers here would go out on a limb to help him. Matthew knew that. As Steve had, and got shot down like a dog for it. As Davies would, if only following protocol didn’t get in the way of bringing animals like Sullivan to justice.

Matthew was on his own on this, though. Had to be. There was no other way.

Swinging into the corridor, he reached for his ringing phone, assuming it was Sullivan with account details to facilitate the transfer of the funds. And once he had what he wanted? Had Matthew really thought there was any chance he’d release Becky unharmed? Release her at all? He’d shot Steve, at close range. Killed his own father. Matthew had no doubt Sullivan had had a hand in that. No, he wasn’t going to let Becky go. Money wasn’t what he was after. Retrieving evidence that wouldn’t stand wasn’t his aim. Sullivan’s motive in all of this, the motive of a madman derailed, was to prove he was the better man, the bigger man. Whatever had driven Sullivan as a kid to viciously attack his victims, careless of the consequences, was driving him now. Matthew should have stopped him.

Melanie’s voice in his ear surprised him. He struggled to understand what she was saying initially, something about Ashley, but she was talking fast and the baby was crying in the background. And then the penny dropped, driving another knife into Matthew’s heart. ‘Gone?’ he repeated, disbelieving. ‘Gone where? When?’

‘I don’t know,’ Melanie sounded distraught. ‘We were getting along fine. At least I thought we were. I had to take Lucas for his check-up this morning. Ashley was still in bed when I left, or I thought she was. When I got back I found a note. Her bed didn’t look as if it had been slept in. I have no idea what time she left. Oh God, Matthew, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I was going to ring Becky, but then Ashley had said she was at her mum’s. I didn’t want to worry her, or you, but—’

‘Whoa, slow down.’ Matthew tried to get his own chaotic thoughts in some sort of order. ‘What did it say, the note?’

‘Well, that’s just it. It doesn’t make any sense. Hold on, I’ll fetch it.’ Matthew waited again. Every second he did seemed like sand slipping through a timer on Becky’s life. Come on, Melanie, he willed her, hearing her shushing the baby as she moved around in the background.

‘It’s addressed to you,’ she said, finally coming back on. ‘She says something about none of it would have happened if she hadn’t been there and … Hang on, I’ll read it.’ Melanie paused, while Matthew suppressed a sigh of frustration.

‘Here we go: If I hadn’t been there none of this would have happened. You were right. I’ve decided to go back.’ Melanie went on, reading from the note. ‘I have some stuff to do first though, so please don’t worry. Don’t worry? Honestly, you’d think she’d realise you’d be worried to death. Poor Becky will be out of her mind. Is Becky all right, Matthew? Only I was really concerned when Ashley told me—’

‘I’ll ring the care home,’ Matthew said quickly. ‘Thanks, Melanie. I’ll get back in touch as soon as I can.’

Avoiding the inevitable questions out of necessity, Matthew ended the call and immediately redialled. No Ashley at the care home, he learned. No sign of her. Dammit! He dragged his collar loose, sucked air deep into his lungs, then cursed out loud and raced for his car.