Dead in the Dark

3 Ten years ago

It started with a single drop of blood. There was almost nothing to see — a splash, a spatter, a fading stain on the laminate flooring. When she first saw it, Frances Swann’s initial reaction was to reach for a handful of paper towels from the cupboard. A drop of washing-up liquid in water should do the trick. Or at least, it did on the carpets in her own house. Did it work on laminate?

The thought made her pause, worrying that she might make the stain worse. She was in her sister’s home, after all. It was only then that she began to wonder where the blood had come from.

Frances looked up. The dogs were out with Adrian and the children were at their granny’s. Reece was in the garage tinkering with the car, polishing up the chrome or something like that.

Puzzled, she stared at her own hands, turning over the palms to examine them. Had she scratched herself on a nail, cut herself on a knife? But there was no visible mark. No trace of an injury on her skin. So the blood wasn’t hers.

She crouched to look at the stain, as if it might tell her something. She felt like a forensic examiner who’d forgotten to bring her equipment today. If she looked closely enough, the blood might tell her whose it was. Was it even human, though? How could she possibly tell?

From that moment, she had a strong impression that whatever she did next might be very important for someone’s life.

Reece Bower pushed the curtain aside and gazed out of the window of his house at the empty road. He seemed to be watching for someone, but no one came. Frances Swann paced impatiently across the room. She was finding his reluctance infuriating.

‘We must do something, Reece,’ she said. ‘She’s been missing for hours now.’

He turned back towards her, but she couldn’t read his expression. It was as if he expected something else to happen, and she was disappointing him.

‘Yes, all right,’ he said in the end. ‘But Annette won’t thank us for it when she gets back. You know how she hates a fuss.’

‘I’m sure something’s happened to her,’ said Frances.

‘And I’m sure it hasn’t. Everything will be fine. You’ll see.’

‘Well, I hope you’re right. Are you going to phone, or shall I?’

Bower shook his head. ‘No, I’ll do it.’

‘You’d better tell them the truth,’ she said.

He paused with his hand on the phone.

‘What do you mean? What truth?’

‘You two had a fight, didn’t you?’

Bower withdrew his hand and held it up in a defensive gesture.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, of course not. What on earth makes you think that, Frances?’

‘I saw the blood,’ she said. ‘Reece, there was blood on the floor.’

‘On what floor?’

‘In the kitchen.’

He smiled. To Frances, it looked like relief. ‘Annette cut herself chopping vegetables. That’s all it was, an accident. She must have missed cleaning a few spots up.’

She said nothing. She didn’t believe him, but wasn’t in a position to argue — not until they found out where Annette was, and what happened to her.

‘Is that all it was?’ said Bower. ‘Frances, really. I’m surprised at you.’

He took a pace towards her. Frances tensed, but stood her ground. ‘This is why we need the truth, Reece.’

‘Okay. It’s fine. We’ll do it. Though I trust you’re prepared for the consequences.’

Frances watched him dial and lift the phone to his ear.

‘Yes, I’m prepared,’ she said quietly. ‘I hope you are, Reece.’

Within a few hours, a search team had been through the house. It was normal procedure, Frances had been told. It was common in these cases for the missing person to be discovered close to home, often right inside their own house.

There had been a lot of questions for Reece to answer. A lot. There was an absolute bombardment from the detective in charge of the case. And Frances could see he was very unhappy about it. When had he last spoken to his wife? Had she said that she was going anywhere? Might she just have forgotten to tell him? What possessions did Annette have with her? A phone, a purse? How much money would she have on her? Cash? Credit cards? How was she dressed when she left the house? Had he checked the wardrobe to see if she’d taken any clothes with her, or personal items? Was there any reason she might have decided to leave? Had he noticed anything suspicious? Had he seen anyone hanging around the house?

Reece had become exasperated very quickly. He couldn’t take questioning like that. It wasn’t in his character. He was used to being in control and he became offended within minutes at the detective’s questions. Frances couldn’t see, but she could imagine them glaring at each other with a growing hostility. Reece wasn’t doing himself any favours. But she wasn’t sorry to see that.

And then came Frances’s turn to answer questions.

‘So Mrs Bower’s disappearance was reported by her husband,’ said the detective when he came to interview her.

‘Yes,’ she said. And then she added: ‘Eventually.’

He’d looked interested then.

‘Did you think he should have reported it earlier, Mrs Swann?’

‘I do,’ she admitted.

‘And you had a disagreement about it?’

She looked at the officer more closely. She hadn’t said that, but he’d read it in her manner. Frances realised that she had been underestimating him.

‘Detective...?’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t take in your name. Everything has been so mad.’

‘Detective Inspector Hitchens,’ he said. ‘Paul Hitchens.’

She smiled at him. Somehow knowing his name made him more human.

‘Yes, we did disagree,’ she said. ‘I urged him to phone earlier, but he kept saying he was sure Annette would come home soon. And she didn’t, of course.’

‘We do ask people to be certain a person is missing for no good reason before they make a report,’ said DI Hitchens gently. ‘We can waste a lot of time otherwise, if someone is just late, because they’ve got stuck in traffic or their car has broken down. Sometimes they don’t have a phone, or the battery has run down, or it isn’t possible to get a signal. There are all kinds of innocent reasons.’

Frances shook her head. ‘It isn’t anything like that.’

‘Well, the other possibility is that Mrs Bower went away for a reason and is deliberately not making contact.’

Frances felt a flood of relief. He’d seen exactly what she was thinking without her having to say it. She would have felt guilty volunteering her suspicion. Disloyal. Of course, her true loyalty was to her sister, not to Reece. Yet she felt as though she was interfering in their relationship, coming between them in a way her sister would object to. She was afraid of what Annette would say about it when she came back. But that was if she came back.

‘It’s all right to tell me what you’re thinking,’ said Hitchens. ‘I assure you it won’t go any further, Mrs Swann.’

‘Very well.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Reece and Annette have been going through a difficult patch in their marriage. My sister confides in me, you see. She told me they’ve been having arguments recently.’

‘What about?’

Frances hesitated. It was getting personal now. ‘Oh, the usual things.’

‘I don’t really know what the usual things are,’ said Hitchens. ‘I’m not married.’

‘Well... I mean money, for a start. Annette likes to spend it. Reece is more cautious. He thinks she’s too extravagant.’

‘And that’s been causing arguments. Serious ones?’

‘Not violent, if that’s what you mean. Just an ongoing niggle and resentment.’

Hitchens didn’t look impressed. ‘Anything else?’

‘Well, a few years ago Reece had an affair. Annette was very upset about it, as you can imagine.’

‘That I can understand.’

‘It was with a colleague of his at work. Her name was Madeleine Betts.’

Hitchens consulted a notebook. ‘Mr Bower works at Chesterfield Royal Hospital, I believe.’

‘That’s right. In the finance department. I’m not sure about the Betts woman, but he must have met her through the job.’

‘How long did the affair last?’

‘I can’t tell you. I don’t think Annette ever got the full truth out of Reece. But he told her it was over and the woman was being moved to another department.’

‘So that was it?’

‘It took them a long time to get over it and go back to normal. In fact, I’m not certain they ever did get back to normal. It’s not something you forget very easily, that kind of betrayal.’

‘But this was some time ago,’ said Hitchens.

‘Yes, it must be a couple of years now.’

Hitchens narrowed his eyes, and she knew nothing was going to escape him. ‘But more recently, perhaps...?’ he said.

Frances sighed again. ‘I think Reece has been doing the same thing again.’

‘He was having another affair?’

‘It seems like it. I gained the impression from a few things Annette said, small incidents she mentioned. She didn’t say straight out. I think she was ashamed.’

‘Ashamed? I don’t understand.’

‘It’s a bit hard to explain, but Annette made that decision two years ago to forgive him, and stick by her marriage. If she had to admit the same thing was happening again, it would mean she’d made a mistake. That she’d failed. I think she saw it as her fault. That was why she didn’t come straight out with it, I’m sure. She would normally have confided in me, but in recent weeks I could tell there was something she was holding back.’

‘It’s hardly evidence, I’m afraid,’ said Hitchens. ‘But if you could give me more details of what your sister said to you, we can follow it up and see if there’s any substance to your suspicions.’

‘I understand.’

‘I’ll get Detective Constable Murfin to come and take a full statement from you.’

‘Very well.’

While she waited, Frances went into the kitchen. Her instinct was to make a cup of tea. Some of these police officers would probably like one. It wasn’t her house, but she felt it was her role. Something she could do, at least. Something other than answering questions.

To her surprise, she found Reece collapsed on a chair at the kitchen table. He looked exhausted. His face was pale and his hair was untidy, as if he’d been running his hands through it. She had never seen him look so dishevelled. Surely just answering questions wouldn’t have drained him like that? He was probably too tense. He must be hiding something. She was sure of that now. Trying to conceal a secret under questioning was very hard work.

Reece didn’t look up as she came into the room. He was staring at his hands where they lay on the table. Frances imagined he was picturing what his hands might have done. She could feel the guilt oozing from his pores. What should she do? What could she say to him?

Frances cleared her throat.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she said.

She couldn’t even bring herself to say his name. A conviction was growing inside her and she couldn’t fight it. She didn’t want to fight it. She had no doubt in her own mind now that he had done something to Annette.

‘What?’ He looked up, as if dazed. ‘Oh, yes. All right.’

Frances boiled the kettle and took some mugs out of the cupboard.

‘I thought I’d make one for the detectives. There’s one coming to take my statement. Or do you think they’d prefer coffee?’

Reece seemed to jerk back to alertness. ‘Your statement? Your statement?’

‘Yes. I don’t know how much I can tell them that will be of any help.’

‘No, nor me,’ said Reece.

He was staring at her now. Frances began to feel a little afraid. She could see two police officers in the garden. They were standing near the flower bed where Reece had dug out some hydrangeas. He’d said they were getting too big, killing off everything else around them. Annette had liked them, but she’d been unable to convince him to keep them. He’d dug them up by the roots, cut them up and burned the branches by the shed at the bottom. You could still see the black embers of the fire where he’d poked at it with a stick to make it flare up, as if he was tending a barbecue.

Now the detective inspector was speaking to the two policemen. Hitchens, that was his name. Frances saw him nod seriously, then he turned to look back at the house. She made a show of turning on the tap and wiping a cloth round the sink. She knew it was futile. He wasn’t stupid. He would know perfectly well that she was watching.

‘Are you making that tea, or what?’ said Reece crossly from behind her.

‘It’s coming.’

Frances clanked the mugs, popped in teabags, poured boiling water. Through the steam, she glimpsed Detective Inspector Hitchens walking down the garden to the burned patch. She saw him pick up a stick — probably the very same stick that Reece had used — and he poked carefully at the ashes before dropping the stick and pulling a phone out of his pocket.

She walked quickly to the fridge and took out a carton of milk before coming back to the window. It was too interesting to miss, like watching a TV detective drama but in real life, right there in her sister’s garden.

Now it was her turn to feel guilty. This wasn’t entertainment. This was about her sister’s life.

‘Mrs Swann?’

Frances turned and saw a new visitor standing in the doorway of the kitchen. A middle-aged man shaped like an egg, wearing a scruffy suit and tie pulled loose at the neck. Surely this one couldn’t be...?

‘Detective Constable Murfin,’ he said. ‘I’m here to take your statement.’

‘Yes, I’m ready for you.’

The newcomer glanced at the milk carton she was holding and the steaming mugs.

‘You wouldn’t happen to have a piece of cake to go with that?’ he said.

Just over two weeks later Frances Swann stood and watched as her brother-in-law was handcuffed by police officers and led away to a car. She didn’t know what she felt as she saw him being driven away. Her emotions were conflicted. It was hard to accept that she had played a part in bringing Reece to this disaster, yet it was the only thing she could have done for Annette. Her sister still hadn’t been found, and everybody was certain now that she was dead. Reece Bower would have to explain that.

Frances hadn’t been able to figure out how he’d done it. Oh, it was easy to kill someone. Far too easy, in fact. But disposing of a dead body was much more difficult. The policeman, Detective Inspector Paul Hitchens, had told her that. You had to work very hard, or be particularly clever, to make sure the body of your victim was never found.

Frances turned away as the police cars left. That was what puzzled her most. In her experience, Reece Bower wasn’t a man who would work very hard at anything, not if it involved physical effort. And he certainly wasn’t particularly clever.

So how had he done it? Was it possible that someone had helped him?