Hunting shadows

HUNTING SHADOWS AN OBSESSION FOR HIM. LIFE AND DEATH FOR HER.

SHeILA bUGLer

HUNTING SHADOWS

From: Briony.Murray@LewishamPsych.nhs.net To: Ebaxter@met.police.uk Subject: DI Ellen Kelly Ed, As promised, please find attached my report on Ellen Kelly. In it, you’ll find my professional assessment of Ellen’s mental health, along with my recommendation that she continues her counselling sessions for a further six months. I’ve also stated that I believe Ellen is ready to return to work, but in a reduced capacity.

Off the record, though, there’s something you need to be aware of.

As you know, Ellen only agreed to counselling because it was one of the recommendations of the IPCC investigation following the fatal shooting incident last year.

Despite the compulsory nature of the sessions, I think Ellen has enjoyed them more than she expected and I hope she has found them useful.

She is a compassionate, intelligent woman who clearly loves her two children and is still mourning the tragic death of her husband three years ago. Dealing with any death is difficult, but coping in the aftermath of a murder can be an unmanageable burden. In general, I would say Ellen is dealing with her loss as well as can be expected.

As you’ve already said, she is remarkably modest.

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I read the official report on the Hope investigation. It’s clear that Ellen was solely responsible for saving the lives of Katie Hope and her son, Jake. Ellen’s bravery in confronting the man who abducted them is the single reason they are still here today. And yet she refuses to acknowledge that.

At first, I put this down to guilt. The only way she was able to save Katie and Jake was by killing William Dunston, the man who abducted them. However, at the end of ten counselling sessions with Ellen, I am doubtful now that this is the case.

And here’s the thing you need to be aware of, Ed. I can see no sign that Ellen feels any guilt at all about what she did. As you know, I’ve worked with several men and women who have killed in the line of duty. In every case, the officer in question struggles to come to terms with what they’ve done. Taking another person’s life leaves its mark. And there seems to be little correlation between the ‘sort’ of victim and the level of guilt. Drug-dealers, child abusers, murderers – many of your colleagues would say they got what they deserved. And yet … One officer, for example, shot dead a serial killer in self-defence. His guilt was such that he couldn’t face returning to work and, eventually, packed it in altogether. Every time he thought about it, he saw the face of the man he’d killed and he just couldn’t do it.

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HUNTING SHADOWS So what makes Ellen different? Normally, I’d say this lack of remorse might indicate a psychopathic personality, but with Ellen that’s categorically not the case. (And yes, I did run some standard tests – it’s all in the report.)

There is another explanation but it’s not one you’ll want to hear. You see, far from showing signs of guilt, Ellen seems glad about what happened. And knowing what we do about who she blames for her husband’s death, I am left with a question: did Ellen kill William Dunston in self-defence or did she kill him deliberately?

I know the IPCC cleared Ellen of any wrong-doing and there is no reason to dispute that ruling. And what I’m telling you now is just a hunch and – very occasionally (!) – my hunches are wrong. I like Ellen. I can see why you rate her so highly. But there’s something not quite right about her reaction to Dunston’s death. You and I go way back, Ed, otherwise I wouldn’t even mention this. But I owe it to you to be as honest as I can. Plus I trust you to treat what I’ve told you in confidence.

I’ve done my best, but I’d really like to get to the bottom of this. Until I do, I would strongly recommend Ellen continues her counselling sessions and you keep her off frontline work until further notice.

All the very best Briony

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MONDAY, 14 FEBRUARY

HUNTING SHADOWS

09:45 They were coming. Brian couldn’t see them. Not yet. No problem hearing them, though. Their voices drifted towards him, breaking the silence of the empty street. Daddy shouting and Marion’s little voice answering back.

Brian tensed. He wanted to warn her, tell her not to talk back.

Daddy didn’t like it. It wound him up something terrible. And you didn’t want that.

They turned into Lenham Road and now he could see them.

He stepped back into the garden behind him, breath held, waiting. Daddy would leave Marion, like he did every morning, and let her run on her own to the school at the other end of the street.

They were late. The other kids had already gone in. If you looked up and down Lenham Road, there wasn’t a soul about.

Apart from Daddy and Marion. And Brian himself, of course.

Except hidden in the garden like this, you’d have a problem noticing him there at all. Which was the idea.

He’d chosen this place on purpose. Behind him, the big house was derelict – windows smashed or boarded-up, no sign of anyone having lived here for a long time. No fear of anyone lurking inside, watching what he was up to.

Daddy looked different, but Brian had expected that. He’d probably changed his appearance on purpose. Trying to disguise himself. Doing all he could to confuse Brian. Daddy was clever that way. Not like Brian, who took after his Mam and was a 12

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brainless twat. Or so Daddy said.

In fact, Brian was cleverer than Daddy gave him credit for.

Fair enough, he’d made some mistakes, messed things up from time to time. Especially with Molly. It would be different this time, though. He could feel it. This time, he knew exactly what he was doing.

Daddy leant down, like he was trying to give Marion a kiss.

It was all Brian could do to stop himself jumping out from his hiding place and screaming at Daddy to take his hands off her.

But he didn’t have to worry. Marion had already turned away and was running down the street towards the school.

Daddy called after her but she didn’t stop, didn’t even slow her stride or look back. Couldn’t wait to get away from the mean old bastard.

‘Just go!’ Brian whispered, willing Daddy to walk away.

Marion was getting closer.

‘Go!’ His hands clenched into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. Marion slowed down. Not running anymore. Daddy turned and started walking, disappeared around the corner.

Gone. Only Marion left. Nearly here now.

His heart was thumping so loudly it was a wonder she couldn’t hear it. But she showed no sign of hearing anything except the song she was singing. It was that stupid song she sang every morning. Something about a man and a mirror. And when she got to the middle bit she’d squeal – dead loud – like someone 13

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was hurting her. He hated that song. Especially the squealing.

It drilled into his head until he thought he’d do anything to get it to stop. She wouldn’t sing that when they were together. He’d get her to sing other songs for him instead. Songs like Over the Rainbow or Endless Love. Proper songs without all that bloody squealing.

His heart was really going for it now, banging away like a drum. The palms of his hands were damp. He kept wiping them on his jeans, but it made no difference. Moments later they’d be all wet again. Nerves, that’s what it was.

What if she didn’t recognise him?

He shook his head, smiling at himself for being so daft. Hadn’t he gone over this again and again?

She’d be a bit shocked to start with, of course. He’d prepared himself for that. It had been a while, after all. That’s why he’d decided to do it this way. Once they got home, he could explain things properly to her. Plenty of time for chatting then.

Now, he had to concentrate on Marion.

He glanced behind him – at the house with the boarded up windows; at the white van parked on the gravelled driveway, its doors open, ready and waiting.

Marion’s voice. The words growing clearer as she drew close.

‘I’m starting with the ma-an in the mirror …’

One. ‘… I’m asking him to cha-ange his ways …’

Two. 14

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‘… No message could have been any clearer …’

Three!

He jumped from his hiding place, reached out and grabbed her, all in one smooth action. He swung her in the air and lowered her gently into the back of the van, hand covering her mouth the whole time so she couldn’t scream out. Holding her down while he wrapped the thick tape around her was a bit tricky, but nothing he couldn’t handle. She kept wriggling and trying to hit him, but he got there in the end. As he closed the doors, he couldn’t stop smiling.

Humming quietly to himself, Brian climbed into the van and reversed out of the driveway. Lenham Road was still deserted.

Even if someone did happen to pass by, he doubted they would be able to hear the feeble thumps coming from the back of the van.

Let’s see who’s the brainless twat now, Daddy.

13:30 He called her Blue. Because of her eyes, he said. Told her they were the bluest things he’d ever seen. Later, when he knew her real name, he still called her Blue. She liked it. Blue. Vinny’s name for her.

He was gone now. Only his voice came back to her. During the long nights of jumbled sleep and tumbled dreams, she’d hear his voice whispering in her ear: ‘What you up to, Blue?’

She’d lie there, eyes closed, still asleep, head twisting from side to 15

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side on the pillow, trying to follow the sound, trying to see him. But she never did. There was only the voice. So close she’d imagine she could feel his warm breath on her cheek as he whispered to her.

‘What you up to, Blue?’

And even though she couldn’t see him, she’d try to answer. Try to tell him what she’d been up to. Struggling out of sleep as she used every bit of strength to get her mouth working, get the words out.

Except every time, every single sodding time, she was too late. By the time she managed to say something her eyes were open and she was awake and he was gone. Always gone.

Vinny. Ellen thought of him the moment she got out of her car and looked up the length of Lenham Road, to the school at the other end. Maybe it was the black and yellow lines of police tape blocking access, or maybe the alien army of white-suited, silent SOCOs inching their way along Lenham Road, examining the scene meticulously for traces of forensic evidence. Most likely, though, it was the unmistakable sense that something terrible had happened here, and that the lives of those directly affected had changed forever in ways they could never have foreseen.

An icy February wind cut across South-East London, rustling the protective plastic boots Ellen had put on and causing the ends of her blue Reiss winter coat to flap against her legs. When she shivered, though, it wasn’t because of the wind. It was the sight of a child’s black shoulder bag lying on the pavement, like it had been thrown there.

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It was similar to the bags her own children had, with a round school logo on the front. This bag had opened and some of its contents had fallen out, including a slim paperback book. It was too far away for Ellen to read the title, but she recognised the image. The shadowy outline of a man and a young boy, with aeroplanes flying overhead. Goodnight Mister Tom. Waterstones in Bromley had it on special offer before Christmas. She’d bought a copy for Pat, her eldest child.

It seemed wrong, somehow, for the bag and its contents to be left on the ground like that. The mother in Ellen wanted to run down the road and pick up the bag, carefully put everything back inside and hand it back to the little girl who’d dropped it.

Except there was no little girl.

‘Boss!’ A familiar voice rose above the low moan of the wind.

Ellen turned around, saw a short man with cropped ginger hair and a large stomach charging towards her like a bull. She held up her hands, protecting herself, as he slid to a halt in front of her, his white face shiny with pleasure. Malcolm McDonald.

‘Baxter said he’d called you,’ Malcolm said. ‘He wasn’t sure how soon you’d be able to get sorted, though. It’s true then, is it?

You’re coming back? About bloody time. Hasn’t been the same without you, Ellen.’

Ellen cocked an eyebrow.

‘Sorry,’ Malcolm said. ‘It hasn’t been the same without you, Ma’am. Pretty bad business to come back to, though. You sure you’re up to this? I mean, can’t be easy. Another missing kid on 17

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your first day back. I mean, it’s bound to bring back some memories, right?’

‘You been on training to become more tactful?’ Ellen asked.

‘Huh?’ Ellen smiled. ‘Didn’t think so. Right, let’s get to it. What’s happened here? I got the basics from Baxter, but go through it again for me. From the beginning.’

‘Jodie Hudson,’ Malcolm began. ‘Ten years old. Father took her to school this morning, like he does every morning. Left her at the top of the road – here – for her to walk the last bit by herself. School’s down there. Look, you can see for yourself. Three hundred metres max. You can’t see the road from the classrooms, but anyone standing at the school gates would have been able to see Jodie walking the whole way along the road. Except she never got there.

‘When she didn’t turn up for school, they phoned the mother, who called the father, only she couldn’t get through to him. She wasn’t too worried at first. Assumed the girl was sick and Dad had forgotten to call the school to let them know. Sadly, that wasn’t the case. Father wasn’t tracked down till two minutes past eleven.’

Ellen interrupted him. ‘Okay. Questions. One, why didn’t anyone notice her? When I drop my kids to school the road is packed with parents and children rushing to get there before the bell rings. Two, if the girl was sick, why wouldn’t the mother know that already? Are the parents separated? Three, where the 18

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hell was the father between dropping the daughter off and eleven o’clock?’

‘The street was empty,’ Malcolm said. ‘They were running late. A regular occurrence, according to the school. Girl’s parents aren’t separated, but the mother works in the City and leaves early every morning. She’s the breadwinner. Dad stays at home and looks after the kids. Two kids. Jodie and her older brother, Finlay – fourteen years old, goes to Thomas Moore in Eltham.

Catholic family, as you’ve probably gathered.’

Ellen nodded. St Anne’s, the school Jodie was trying to get to, was a Catholic school, like the one her own children attended in Greenwich. Plenty of Catholic schools in this part of London to meet the large population of first- and second-generation Irish and Poles.

‘And the father?’ she asked.

Malcolm shrugged. ‘Not sure yet. Claims he was shopping in Lewisham and had his phone switched off. We’ve no idea yet if that’s true or not. He’s at the station now being questioned.

Mother’s there too. Baxter’s with them.’

Malcolm said something else, but Ellen had stopped listening.

She turned away from him, looking down Lenham Road as she tried to picture the scene. The little girl skipping down the road, father standing where Ellen stood now. She imagined him watching his daughter for a moment and then – reluctantly, maybe – turning and walking away. And after he was gone, the girl keeps going, her bag over her shoulders, slapping gently against her 19