Creed (A Kate Redman Mystery Page 13

  Kate sat back on the sofa and took a sip – no, if truth be told, a glug – of wine. She wasn’t sure why she was so upset. It was a shock, yes, but not that surprising really, given that Tin was forty and had clearly had plenty of relationships in the past. We’ve all got secrets in the past.

  Staring at the empty grate of the fireplace, Kate realised that the reason she was reacting in this way was because of the past. If Tin had now been honest about his child, then surely Kate should tell him of the son she’d once had? Kate closed her eyes, pressing her wine glass to her forehead. I should tell him, she thought. How can we move forward in this relationship when I can’t even be honest about the past? But, as the minutes lengthened, and she sat and listened to Tin’s muffled voice as he talked to his daughter, she knew she wouldn’t tell him. Not this time. Not yet.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Kate had some holiday booked for the next week. She’d originally intended to go up to London to see Jay and Laura but as she’d spent the Sunday with Jay, sorting through the first lot of her mother’s possessions (and what a fun day that had been), she was less inclined to shell out for an expensive train ticket and make the long journey to the capital. She toyed with the idea of driving down to Brighton to see her friend Hannah, before realising that Hannah and her family were on holiday in France. So Monday morning saw Kate sitting down to a slightly later breakfast than normal, wondering rather aimlessly about what she was going to do.

  After a couple of cups of coffee, she pulled her laptop towards her and opened it up, bringing up several search engines. She typed suicide cluster into the search box of each and hit return on her keyboard. As the links to various pages came up, Kate tried to ignore the little voice that was chastising her, telling her how stupid she was to be working on what should have been her time off.

  Slowly, she worked her way through the links that the search engines had brought up, reading through academic papers, psychology blogs and newspaper articles. Merlin, sensing that she was going to be sitting still for a while, jumped up into her lap and curled up. Kate read and made notes, then searched for a different combination of words and read and made more notes, Merlin’s motorboat purr a comforting noise in the background.

  At lunch time she stopped, got up and stretched, Merlin jumping down to the kitchen floor as he was dislodged. Kate made herself a sandwich and ventured out onto the patio to eat it. It was sunny and fresh; not as warm as the previous day had been. Kate knew that she should really be doing something other than research, something that would really make the most of her time off. Trouble was, though, she didn’t really want to. You really are married to the job, she told herself and remembered Anderton warning her of that very thing. Kate sighed and put the last quarter of her sandwich down untouched, not very hungry anymore. Then she put the kettle on – camomile tea this time; she’d had so much coffee her hands were shaking faintly – and sat back down at the table.

  Her mobile buzzed with an incoming text and Kate picked it up to see a message from Olbeck. Drinks, tonight? Black Cat at 8pm? She smiled, texted back in the affirmative and bent to her computer again.

  By mid-afternoon Kate felt as though she’d been reading about suicide for most of her adult life. The word itself was beginning to blur into meaninglessness. She stretched her aching shoulders and decided to try just one more search term. She typed in suicide cluster teenage girls art and drama school and hit the return button again, waiting for the results to come up.

  There were only three results that appeared. Kate clicked on the first link, the internet taking her to a newspaper article, a report in The Vermont Examiner, obviously an American newspaper. Whilst the headline and sub-heading loaded quickly – Suicide Spate at Arlington: four teen girls take their own life at elite arts faculty – the rest of the article took so long to load that Kate almost abandoned the attempt. But eventually, the rest of the article could be read and Kate did just that, catching her breath as she reached the end of the article. The Arlington School of Performing Arts, a speciality college in the state of Vermont, had suffered a similar series of deaths to Abbeyford School of Art and Drama. Four girls, all aged between sixteen and nineteen, had killed themselves over a period of several months, during the summer of 2010. Kate read the article again and then searched again to see if there was anything else that came up. There were several articles from the state media, including an interview piece with the parents of the four victims. Kate read on, feeling a shiver at the heartbroken phrases quoted in the article, remembering her own interviews with the parents of Joshua, Kaya, Claire and Veronica.

  She sat back, moving her gaze from the black and white words on the screen in front of her to stare blindly across the room. Then she looked back at the newspaper’s title. The Vermont Examiner. Now why was that ringing a faint bell? Kate let her gaze become unfocused again as she thought it through.

  Vermont. That was it. Zac Downey had said he was from Vermont. Kate moved the keyboard closer to her and began typing again. It was a link, a very tenuous link, but a link nonetheless... She typed in Arlington school of performing arts and waited impatiently for the school’s homepage to load.

  It was well-funded, this school, that was obvious. The pictures of the campus showed mellow, red-brick buildings, wooden panelling, sweeping lawns. Kate flicked from web page to web page, noting the similarities between Arlington and Abbeyford. Then she found the contact email for the school and began typing a message. To whom it may concern, my name is Detective Sergeant Kate Redman and I work for the Criminal Investigation Department in Abbeyford, England... She elaborated on the suicides that had taken place in the town and ended with the request that we’re following up a number of leads and I was wondering if you could confirm whether a teacher called Zac Downey had ever had a place on your faculty at Arlington, most particularly in the year of 2010?

  Kate checked the message, signed it off and sent it. Then she sat back, blowing out her cheeks. It would probably come to nothing but at least she would have checked. She glanced at the clock and saw, to her surprise, that it was almost seven o’clock. She’d have to hurry if she was going to get to the Black Cat by eight. Kate ran for the stairs, the email she’d just sent slipping from her mind.

  *

  “It’s not like you to be late,” Olbeck said, as Kate panted up to the table he was sitting at, by the fireplace at the back of the bar.

  “I know. Got caught up in things.” Kate flumped down on the chair and tried to collect herself. She was slightly surprised that Jeff wasn’t there as well. “Where’s Jeff?”

  “At home. He didn’t mind – he knows I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while.”

  Kate felt her stomach drop floorwards. “That sounds ominous,” she said, trying for a jokey tone that didn’t quite work.

  “Yeah, I know. It won’t be. But Kate, seriously—” Olbeck took a sip of his pint and then went on. “I don’t think you’re doing yourself any good at all by refusing to even talk about how you’re feeling.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re clearly still grieving. You’re obviously not over your mum’s death, by a long shot, but you’re still pushing away anyone that tries to even talk to you about it.”

  “That’s not true!” Kate said, furious.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No. You’re wrong.” Kate sat back in her chair and took a long pull of her drink, one that Olbeck had thoughtfully provided before she’d even arrived.

  “I’m worried about you,” said Olbeck, evenly. “I think you’re really upset and wound up over your mum’s death, and I think you need to talk to someone about it. Get some grief counselling or something like that.”

  Kate said nothing but buried her face in her drink again. She was fighting a strong urge to get up and walk out of the bar.

  “I don’t know for certain but from what I’ve observed, it’s obvious you’re not still seeing Magda,” Olbeck went on relentlessly. “Do you thin
k that’s wise? You always said that seeing her did you a lot of good. Why not ring her up and make another appointment?”

  “Look,” said Kate, goaded beyond reason. “You’re not my fucking father, all right? I’m quite able to take care of myself, okay? There’s no need for you to stick your oar in.”

  Olbeck sat back, unperturbed by Kate’s bad language. “I love you,” he said, steadily. “I care about you, and so does Jeff. All we want is just for you to be happy. Happy and mentally healthy.”

  The word love was the killer, thought Kate. That one word could dry up all the anger, all the frustration. She stared down at the table through a blur of tears. He’ll make a great father, she thought suddenly, and she would have said so, except some mean little part of her was still too resentful to want to reward him in any way.

  There was a short silence. Kate knew she should say something but at that moment, all the words in her head seemed to have flown away. She stared down at her nearly-empty glass, wondering if she would ever have her life sorted out and if so, when it was likely to happen. Thirty-five. If she wasn’t on top of things now, when was she ever likely to be?

  “Who was your dad, anyway?”

  Kate looked up, startled. “What?”

  “You never talk about your father. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you mention him. Who was he?”

  Kate looked down again. “I don’t think my mother ever knew,” she said, distantly.

  “Oh.”

  Silence fell again. Kate emptied her glass, sighed and made an effort. “Mark, thanks.” It cost her some effort to say it but as soon as she did, she felt better. “I know you mean well – I mean, I know you’ve got my best interests at heart but—” What was she trying to say? Kate wasn’t sure that she even knew herself.

  “But, what?” prompted Olbeck, after the silence stretched out.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Kate tipped her empty glass back and forth. “Want another drink?”

  Olbeck didn’t respond for a moment. “That’s another thing,” he said, eventually. “You’re drinking a hell of a lot more than you used to.”

  Kate smarted. “So?”

  “It’s not like you, that’s all.”

  “Well,” said Kate, already hating the sound of her pompous tone. “You said it yourself. I’m grieving. People do funny things when they’re grieving.”

  Olbeck looked at her, not fooled. “Just don’t let it become a habit, that’s all.”

  “Oh, God...” Kate gave into the impulse she’d been fighting for at least twenty minutes. “I think I’ll go now.”

  “Don’t be like that. Come on, sit down.”

  “I don’t want to.” Even to her own ears, she sounded five years old.

  “If you sit down, I promise not to have a go at you anymore.” Olbeck smiled anxiously. “Come on, sit down and I’ll let you have a juicy bit of gossip. Come on, you know you want to hear it. You know you do.”

  Kate laughed, despite herself. She sat down. “What is it then?”

  “Um—” Olbeck said, clearly floundering, and that made them both laugh. The tension eased and Kate leant forward, feeling her shoulders relax.

  “If it’s about Fliss’s new boyfriend, I already know.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that,” said Olbeck. “I don’t actually have any gossip, I just didn’t want you to go. You silly cow.”

  “Charming,” said Kate, but with a grin. “My round, yes?”

  “Go on, then.”

  Kate stood up again, reaching for her handbag. As she left the table, she gave Olbeck an affectionate slap around the face.

  “Ow!”

  “Deserved that,” Kate said. She went over to the bar, thinking about what he’d said.

  Late that evening, when she got home, Kate checked her emails. She knew it was silly to expect a reply from the Arlington School this early, but you never knew... She opened up Outlook and scanned the new emails. Nothing that could possibly be from Arlington. With disappointment, she checked her junk mail folder. Nothing there, either.

  Go to bed, Kate. Obediently, she went upstairs and got ready for bed, thinking of Arlington and what Olbeck had said, and the last thing she thought of before sleep claimed her was of Anderton’s last words to her in the office. I find you very attractive, Kate... She went to sleep with a smile on her face.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dear Detective Sergeant Redman. I was concerned to receive your email yesterday, hence my prompt reply. I’m so sorry that your community is suffering the same awful trauma that the residents of Arlington went through in 2010. It was the most distressing period of my time as a principal and I think, even now, we are not quite past it...

  Kate hunched forward over her laptop, scanning the words of the email she’d received from Professor Catherine Menkle, Principal of Arlington School of Performing Arts in Vermont. She read on.

  There has never been a teacher called Zac or Zachariah Downey working here at Arlington, either in 2010 or indeed at any time, so I’m sorry that this can’t help you, although you do not say in what connection you are seeking him? Forgive me, I know very little about English police procedures.

  Kate sat back, feeling the thud of disappointment in her stomach. Oh well, it had been a long shot, anyway. She should have known her hunch wasn’t going to lead to anything. She forced herself to read the rest of the email.

  In case it helps at all, I have attached yearbook photographs of the entire faculty for the 2009 – 2010 school year. Please do get in contact with me again should you feel that I would be able to help you further. Sincere regards, Catherine Menkle (Prof.).

  Kate sat back again, sighing. Then she got up and flicked the switch on the kettle, feeling the need for strong coffee. She had a bit of a hangover, thanks to the drinks with Olbeck last night. Merlin twined himself around her ankles, slipping between her feet like a twisting black scarf. Kate bent down gingerly to stroke him.

  Was it even worth looking at those photographs? Catherine Menkle had already told her that Zac Downey had never worked there. Kate filled her mug with just-boiled water, added milk and carried the brimming mug back to her laptop on the kitchen table. She decided to take a quick look, purely because, yet again, she was feeling a bit aimless and didn’t really have much to do. I should go for a walk or something, see a film... Kate glanced out the kitchen window onto a dispiriting grey day, and even as she looked the first spots of rain hit the patio. She turned back to her laptop screen, sipped her coffee, and clicked on the zipped attachment to the email, waiting for it to load.

  The photographs were all individual headshots, rather than the class pictures that Kate had been expecting. Slowly, she clicked through them all, wondering again what she was doing. This was an utter waste of time...

  Then she saw it and her throat closed up with excitement. She heard herself give an audible gasp. There was Zac Downey’s handsome face, the hair shorter, the face itself younger and fuller, but it was him – indisputably him. Kate read the accompanying text next to the photograph, her heart thudding. Luke Smithfield, Deputy Head of Drama.

  Luke Smithfield. Kate looked at the face again in shock, suddenly worrying that her eyes were deceiving her. No, it was him – Downey – it had to be. She quickly opened another tab on her browser and typed in the web address of Abbeyford College of Art and Drama, hoping that there might be a photograph to be found on the ‘School Staff’ web page. She clicked through but was disappointed. Clearly, Abbeyford College didn’t go in for the kind of glossy, expensive yearbooks as the Arlington School had.

  Okay, think Kate. It looked like Downey. If it was, he’d been teaching Drama at Arlington School of Performing Arts during the same year that the school suffered a suicide cluster, just as Abbeyford had over the past few months. And if it was Downey, why was he teaching under a different name? People did change their names, perfectly legally, Kate knew that, but it was...odd. If it was him. She looked again at the yearbook photograph. She really needed a r
ecent photograph in comparison, but where was she to get one?

  A large part of her wanted to drive straight to the police station, to grab the file and flick through it until she found Zac Downey’s statement, with his accompanying photograph. She stood up, meaning to get her coat and bag before realising that she was, in fact, still in her pyjamas. Kate flipped the screen of her laptop shut and ran for the stairs, heading for the bathroom. As she reached the landing, her footsteps slowed.

  She was supposed to be taking a holiday. If she went into the office now, even if it was just to check something, she’d be teased and mocked by Theo and Rav, and perhaps even Fliss. It would be pretty obvious to all that Kate clearly had no life outside work, or that would be the impression given. It doesn’t matter, she tried to tell herself, but instead of turning on the shower, she found herself sitting on the edge of her bed. She was due to go back tomorrow. Tomorrow would be fine. More than once before she’d got into trouble for jumping into things with both feet, going in all guns blazing, without stopping to think it through. She didn’t want that to happen here. Zac Downey – if it was Zac Downey – might have come here and changed his name for a perfectly normal, unsuspicious reason. And even if it was him, it didn’t necessarily mean anything suspicious.

  Kate jumped up and ran downstairs again, grabbing for her laptop. Again, she read through the newspaper reports on the suicide cluster in Arlington, Vermont. Four suicides, that was all. Nothing suspicious reported, no hint that any of the deaths could have been something more sinister. Nothing untoward at all.

  Kate sat back in the chair, staring into space. It was odd, though, wasn’t it? One person present – if it was Downey – at two very rare events. For Kate knew, from Rav’s report and from her own reading, that suicide clusters were rare. She opened up the photograph of ‘Luke Smithfield’ again, frowning. Normal or not, odd or not, she was going to have to talk to Mr Downey. That would have to wait until tomorrow, when she could legitimately go back to work anyway, as her holiday days would have ended.