Shattered: a gripping crime thriller Read online

  Shattered

  DI Kate Fletcher Book 5

  Heleyne Hammersley

  Copyright © 2021 Heleyne Hammersley

  The right of Heleyne Hammersley to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance to the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2021 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Print ISBN 978-1-913942-83-0

  Contents

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  Also by Heleyne Hammersley

  1982

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  1983

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  1983

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  1983

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  1983

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  1984

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Acknowledgements

  A note from the publisher

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  Also by Heleyne Hammersley

  DI Kate Fletcher Series:

  Closer to Home (Book 1)

  Merciless (Book 2)

  Bad Seed (Book 3)

  Reunion (Book 4)

  Suspense thrillers:

  Forgotten

  Fracture

  Don’t Breathe

  …for ‘The Gals’

  1982

  The cold is like a person: a big man with a lot of power who rules and controls all our movements and won’t let us rest. He gets into my sleeping bag with me, under all my layers of clothes, and keeps me awake for a long time. He’s everywhere, under everybody’s blankets, in everybody’s eyes. I hate him but I can’t escape him because there’s nowhere to go. We have to be here. That’s what Mum says; that’s what all the women say. Mum made me hold up a sign yesterday in front of three policemen who’d come to take some of the women away. It said: when I grow up I want to be alive. Huge letters, black on a white background like a headline in a newspaper but much bigger. The policemen were nice. They smiled a lot and made some of the women laugh but their eyes were hard because they have to do their job and their job is to stop us.

  Mum says that what we’re doing here is important; more important than staying at home and cooking and looking after me and Dad. She says that we’re going to change the world but I’m not sure how freezing and trying to not let the policemen see us is going to do that. Some days it feels like a big game but sometimes it’s scary and the women cry and make that funny high-pitched noise called keening. I thought keen meant that you like something, but this sound is more like pain.

  We came here because of a letter that Mum got in the post a few days ago. She didn’t let me read it, she just put lots of our clothes in a suitcase, rolled up our old sleeping bags and dragged me out to the main street where we waited for ages. I thought we were waiting for a bus, but we weren’t at the stop and I tried to tell Mum this, but she just ignored me. Her lips were set in a straight line and her eyes stared in front of her, but she didn’t seem to be seeing what was there on the street. She was lost in her own mind, I think, like something had taken over her body and was working the arms and legs like a puppet.

  A van turned up after a long time and the back doors opened like arms reaching out to give us a hug. Mum lifted me up and somebody grabbed me and sat me down on a wooden bench then she followed me in and the doors closed behind us with a big clang like prison gates. The back of the van was gloomy and it was hard to see who was there but I eventually saw that there were four women, all smoking and staring at nothing, like Mum had been.

  We put up a tatty red tent that one of the van women had given us right next to another two tents that were even tattier. Even though we were camping on the grass there wasn’t much green. Instead, there was a lot of red and orange and dingy white canvas completely swamping the ground. The only space was right next to the huge fence where a strip had been left as though there was a force field around the wire that nobody could get close to. But we did get close to it – the very next day.

  I didn’t really understand what was happening, but Mum made me stand up against the fence and hold her hand, then she held hands with the woman to her left and I put my gloved fingers up for the woman on my right to hold. I leaned back, looking along the length of the fence and all I could see was a line of women stretching into the distance until they disappeared round a corner. It was the same the other way – just heads and faces, all peering at whatever was inside the fence, all silent.

  That was the first day. There have been a lot of days since then.

  1

  ‘Christ, I’m glad I’m not on call anymore,’ a deep voice muttered as DI Kate Fletcher rolled over and groped around the surface of the bedside table for her mobile phone. It was his usual comment whenever she got an early-morning call and, while not an objection, it was always delivered as a grumble. As an oncology consultant at Doncaster Royal Infirmary, Nick Tsappis’s hours were predictable and sociable, but he’d put up with Kate’s career for the two years they’d been seeing each other without much complaint. Now though, they’d agreed to try living together and Kate was worried that he might not be as tolerant if he had to live with the unpredictability of her job all the time.

  He’d done all the groundwork: found a house that suited them both when she’d refused to move into his and he’d just laughed when she’d suggested they share her flat; he’d put both their properties on the market when she’d finally agreed to buy a new place and he’d made himself available to prospective buyers. The big move was scheduled for later in the summer and Nick had offered to help Kate with her packing, but it felt like a step too far. She needed time to sift and sort.

  ‘Dan,’ she said, as DC Dan Hollis’s number flashed on the screen. ‘What’s up? It’s half past bloody six.’

  ‘I know. Sorry. Barratt called – he’s on the early shift – a body turned up in a house in Bessacarr. Looks very much like a suicide. There’s a no
te, no sign of forced entry. The body’s female. Wrists slashed in a bath full of water.’

  ‘But?’ She knew her team wouldn’t be involved in a straightforward suicide.

  ‘But the woman also cut her own throat, deeply.’

  ‘Sounds a bit odd,’ Kate agreed, trying to imagine the scene.

  ‘It gets better. She smashed the mirror in her hallway and used a sharp piece to do the damage.’

  Kate tucked the phone between her shoulder and neck and slid out of bed, mouthing an apology to Nick, before stumbling to the bathroom. ‘Not the most obvious choice of weapon.’

  ‘No. And, according to Barratt, there are no signs on her hands that she handled the glass. It’s very sharp and there should have been cuts to her fingers if she’d applied any pressure.’

  ‘Who found her?’

  ‘The daughter, Sadie Sullivan. The mother’s name is Julia. They were supposed to have met for a drink last night, but the mother didn’t turn up. The daughter tried the house phone and the mobile but got no reply. She couldn’t sleep so tried again this morning and then went round.’

  ‘The daughter had a key?’

  ‘Sounds like it. This is all second-hand from Matt. I’ll text you the address.’

  Hollis got out of his car as Kate pulled up in her Mini. The street was wide and tree-lined, located well away from the main road that ran from Doncaster to Bawtry. There were hardly any cars parked on the street itself, instead each driveway housed at least one vehicle, most of them expensive-looking. It wasn’t an area that Kate knew well – regarded as one of Doncaster’s more affluent suburbs, home to head teachers, solicitors and at least one former chief constable of South Yorkshire Police. It was also where Nick had wanted them to buy a house until Kate had pointed out her own lack of middle-class credentials.

  She nodded a greeting to Hollis who looked uncomfortable in a dark suit, white shirt and a deep blue tie – his blond hair already beginning to spike with sweat. It was too hot to be dressed so formally but she knew that Dan wouldn’t let appearances slip if he could help it. Being well over six feet tall, his height drew attention and he definitely wanted to be looked at for the right reasons.

  ‘Number seven,’ he said, pointing to a compact detached house behind a recently trimmed leylandii hedge. Kate would have known which house it was without Hollis’s direction. There was a plain white van in the driveway and two liveried police cars parked opposite.

  ‘Kailisa’s here already?’ she asked, nodding towards the van and referring to the pathologist who she’d clashed with on a number of occasions.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Dan said as they passed the van.

  Kate flashed her ID at the PCSO standing next to the front door and stepped into a wide hallway, her footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor as she approached the stairway. A door opened to her right and DC Matt Barratt appeared looking flustered. He was a trusted member of her team and she knew that, if he was agitated, there was something odd about the case. Barratt liked the detail of his work, poring over statements and diagrams and positing theories that were usually perceptive.

  ‘In here,’ he said. She gave the stairs one last longing glance before following his direction – she’d hoped to see the body in situ and have a chat with Kailisa before dealing with any grieving relatives.

  The cool green of the hallway was continued on the walls of the sitting room creating a feeling of calm that was echoed in the cream sofa and hearth rug. Whoever had decorated had good taste. A woman was perched on the edge of the sofa, one hand clasped round the remains of a tissue, the other, clutching the cushion next to her. She looked to be in her mid-forties although the lack of make-up could have been ageing and the streaks of grey in her dark hair may have been a fashion choice. Dressed in grey tracksuit bottoms and a pale-blue T-shirt, she looked like she’d just been for a run, or just got out of bed.

  ‘Sadie Sullivan,’ Barratt said. ‘Julia’s daughter.’

  Kate offered the woman a thin smile before sitting on one of the two armchairs that faced the window, her synapses tingling. Julia Sullivan. The name was familiar.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Kate began. ‘I can only imagine how awful–’

  Sadie lifted her head, skewering Kate with cat-like amber eyes. ‘You don’t have to imagine. She’s still upstairs in the bath. Why don’t you go up and have a look? Everybody else has.’

  Kate shifted in her seat, uncomfortably aware that her first thought had been to view the body and that Hollis was probably up there now.

  ‘I appreciate this is difficult,’ Kate said. ‘But I need to ask you some questions.’

  ‘About who might kill my mother? I could write you a list, but it’d take all bloody day.’ The woman’s belligerence was disconcerting, as was her certainty that this was murder.

  ‘Can you talk me through what happened,’ Kate prompted. ‘You were supposed to meet your mother last night?’

  Sadie sat back, dropped the cushion and crossed her hands in her lap. ‘We were meant to be having a drink. I’d been over earlier in the day, but she’d been busy – church stuff I suppose. She’d fallen out with Dad again and I’m usually the mediator. I’d got Dad’s side of the story on the phone a few days ago and Mum wanted to give me hers but she didn’t have the time, so we agreed to meet later. I should have known something was wrong as soon as I realised she wasn’t going to turn up. She never misses a chance to twist the knife where he’s concerned.’

  ‘Your parents have split up?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Sadie said. ‘They’ve always had a volatile relationship, so they’ve been living apart for the past few months. Dad moved out in April and lives in his studio now. I think Mum wanted to buy him out of this place. To be frank, I don’t know what’s going on between them and I was hoping to piece it all together last night.’

  Kate looked at Barratt who was scribbling in his notebook. They would need to speak to the husband as a priority.

  ‘They’ve not really got on since Mum stood for the local council. She’s been especially vocal about immigration and Dad doesn’t want to be associated with her views. He thinks it’ll damage his reputation.’

  ‘His reputation?’

  ‘He’s an artist. Lincoln Sullivan? Darling of the left. It’s not good for him to be married to a right-wing councillor – especially one who seems… seemed to be lurching further to the right with each passing day.’

  That’s why the name was familiar. Julia Sullivan had appeared in the local press on a few occasions recently, mostly complaining about the number of refugee families being housed in the Doncaster area. Kate was also familiar with the work of Lincoln, Sadie’s father, renowned for his detailed depictions of scenes from the industries which had built the region – steel and coal. The media were going to be all over this case.

  ‘What made you come here this morning?’ Kate asked. ‘Why not see if your mother was here last night?’

  ‘I’d started to get the feeling that she was having an affair,’ Sadie admitted with a sigh. ‘This wasn’t the first time she’d not turned up to meet me. And she’d often go into a different room to answer the phone. I know it’s not conclusive, but I know her – there was something odd going on.’

  Sadie glanced at Barratt, the movement eerily familiar, as though she was making sure that he was noting everything down. It was something Kate often did during an interview.

  ‘I thought I’d just leave her to it and come round in the morning, but I couldn’t sleep so I got dressed and came round as soon as it got light. If it meant I woke her up well, serves her right, she shouldn’t have stood me up.’ The woman slumped to one side as she seemed to realise the significance of her words; that she would never have another chance to be disappointed by her mother.

  ‘Can you tell me what you saw when you came into the house?’

  Sadie shook her head. ‘Nothing. I just walked in and went upstairs to see if she was in bed. That’s when I saw the mirro
r. It’s in the upstairs hallway, next to the bathroom door. It was broken, pieces of glass everywhere. I was going to go into her bedroom when I heard a noise from the bathroom, like a tap dripping into a full bath. It sounded odd, so I pushed the door open and I found her.’ The last three words were distorted by a tremble in the woman’s voice as she struggled to hold back tears.

  Kate nodded. ‘I was told there was a note. Where did you find it?’

  ‘On top of the toilet cistern. It just said that she’d had a good life but it was time. I couldn’t believe it. There’s no way I would have expected her to kill herself.’

  Kate glanced at Barratt to see if he’d noticed the discrepancy with what she’d said earlier. He frowned slightly. He’d heard it too.

  ‘Sadie,’ Kate said gently. ‘Earlier you said something about writing a list of people who might have killed your mother. Now you’re saying it was suicide.’

  Those amber eyes fixed on Kate again. ‘I thought it was suicide at first. That’s what it was made to look like. Classic – wrists slashed in the bath. But when I saw her throat, I knew she couldn’t have done it herself. It didn’t make sense. Her wrists were deeply cut – how could she have raised a hand and then had the control to slit her own throat? And if she did the throat first how could she have had the strength to cut her wrists? She was murdered, I’m certain.’