Hilary Bonner - When the Dead Cry Out

“Would you die for me?” he asked.

That’s what she had wanted all her life. She wanted somebody she would die for. Somebody so close that there was really no point whatsoever in living without them. Somebody who would die for her, too. Maybe it was what everybody wanted. Karen didn’t know.

She bit her lip and clenched her fists, so tightly that she dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. She did it deliberately. She much preferred physical pain to the dull ache she was beginning to get in her heart. Particularly when she was about to start a day’s work amid a load of chauvinistic policemen, the vast majority of whom, she was sure, regardless of their surface camaraderie, would like nothing better than to detect signs of weakness in her.

For most of her life she had kidded herself that she neither needed nor wanted a long-term relationship, that one-night stands and occasional romps with past lovers were quite sufficient. It was, of course, a lie. A lie to herself. None of that had ever been, nor would ever be, enough.

She was, however, Detective Superintendent Karen Meadows. Successful, popular, competent, in charge of herself and others. She forced a bounce into her stride as she marched into the building, slamming the door behind her, and called a cheery greeting to the two uniformed constables standing by the custody suite.

“This is it,” she told herself. “This is all there is, and all there’s ever going to be for you, Karen Meadows. So you may as well make the best of it.”

By the time she reached her office no casual observer would have suspected that there was anything wrong with her at all, nor suspected for one moment that she was anything but utterly content with the life she had built for herself. Nobody would ever have guessed the misery which that day lay like a lump of ice-cold stone somewhere in the depths of her belly. Nor would they ever have guessed just how easily this tall, tough, together woman could be hurt.

She had, after all, spent very many years cultivating her own personality, building it into a pretty darned impressive act. And she remained absolutely terrified of what might happen if she ever let that act drop.

The bombshell dropped just after midday. Karen no longer had to put on an act. All thoughts of anything except the crisis she was suddenly presented with were completely wiped out of her head.

Phil Cooper, usually in and out of her office all the time, had somehow avoided coming near her all morning. It was Tompkins, his somewhat morose appearance most appropriate on this occasion, who gave her the news which was to add the final absolutely disastrous touch to an already grim day.

“Marshall’s bird is in the front office asking for you, boss,” he said. “She won’t talk to anyone else, won’t even say what it’s about.”

“Jennifer Roth?” Karen queried, unnecessarily perhaps, but she was almost hoping it might be somebody else, maybe an old girlfriend. There was something about Jennifer Roth and her blind faith in Richard Marshall that had made Karen uneasy from the moment she first met the young woman, and she was immediately anxious about what had brought Jennifer to the police station.

“The same, boss,” said Tompkins.

“Well, you’d better show her up then, hadn’t you?” Karen spoke in a level voice and hoped that she appeared cool and in control. As seemed to be her wont, Karen was desperately trying not to display her true feelings.

But the moment the veteran detective constable had left the room Karen rose from her desk and began to pace around, like a wild animal in its cage. Logic told her that there was nothing Jennifer Roth could say or do which could change the events of the last few days at Exeter Crown Court which had led to Marshall finally being brought to justice for the murder of his wife and sentenced to life imprisonment. But she couldn’t help worrying. And although less than five minutes passed before Tompkins led Jennifer Roth into her office, it seemed far longer.

Karen looked her up and down. Jennifer’s long hair was no longer held back in a ponytail, but instead hung in greasy unkempt strands. She was wearing grubby denim jeans, stained trainers and a sweater with holes in the sleeves. She had certainly made no effort with her appearance, and her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. She looked rather as if she had not stopped crying since the court case had ended the previous day.

Her face was still very pale. There were dark smudges below her eyes, partly shadows etched in her rather fine skin and partly the remains of yesterday’s eye make-up, Karen thought.

She let Jennifer stand uncertainly just inside the door for a few seconds before ushering her to a chair. She then sat in her own big black-leather job behind the desk. Under normal circumstances Karen would have taken one of the low chairs on the other side of her desk, right next to Jennifer. But these were not normal circumstances. Until minutes earlier the detective superintendent had believed that the Richard Marshall case was, at last, over. The man was never now likely to stand trial for the murder of his children, but he had at least finally been brought to justice for killing his wife, and the end result would in any case be just the same. With a bit of luck Marshall would spend the rest of his life in jail, and he only had one life, however many murders he was convicted of. But now, suddenly, Karen was no longer sure it was over after all. So she preferred to sit behind her big mahogany-finished desk and on a chair which was slightly higher than the one she had offered the other woman. If she had thought it would have done any good, she would have refused to see Jennifer Roth at all. But that course of action could only ever have resulted in more trouble. And trouble, she was somehow quite certain, was going to be the only outcome of this visit.

“Well, Miss Roth, what can I do for you this morning?” Karen began briskly.

“I came to tell you that Ricky didn’t murder his wife and children,” Jennifer Roth began.

For just a split second Karen almost relaxed. This was, after all, what Jennifer Roth had been saying, over and over again, ever since Marshall was arrested.

“You are entitled to your opinion, but as a court of law and a jury of his peers have decided otherwise, your opinion is irrelevant,” said the detective superintendent sternly. She was determined not to give an inch on this one, whatever Marshall’s girlfriend threw at her.

“It’s not an opinion, it’s a matter of fact.” Jennifer Roth glowered at Karen. She had about her that stubbornness which Cooper had remarked on right at the beginning. She was extremely determined. Like Marshall she had an arrogance in her. And she had a temper. Cooper had seen that, too, and made a note of it in his reports.

Karen leaned back in her chair and, putting on a performance which belied her true feelings, as she so often did, adopted a nonchalant unconcerned manner. “And what exactly is this matter of fact?” she enquired, sarcasm heavy in her voice.

“Ricky could not have done it. I know he didn’t do it. And that is a fact,” said Jennifer Roth.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that, Miss Roth,” Karen responded.

The other woman looked at her levelly enough, but her lower lip still had a tremble in it. She was genuinely upset. Karen had thought all along that there was no doubt that Jennifer Roth genuinely loved Richard Marshall. She had thought that when she had seen Jennifer in court every day, and she thought it even more now that Marshall had been found guilty and imprisoned. It was remarkable, really. The man was a monster and yet he could still inspire this kind of devotion. He had done it all his life with women — she strongly suspected that he had done it with her own mother — and he was still doing it. Remarkable, infuriating and quite unfathomable, thought Karen.