Page 70 of The Tapes
Together, Vivian and I put the tape in my cassette player. And once we pressed play, everything became clear.
Mum’s voice told us how she stole the jewellery box, and found the hidden bottom. How the person from whom she took it would know it was her. That she knew they’d be coming.
She named names.
Vivian discovered the person who murdered her daughter at the same time as me. She would have known thirteen years ago if not for the floods, the boxes, and the fact she had to package up a whole portion of her life. It was the only way for her to cope: to throw everything in the attic and move on.
We both know we cannot take that tape to the police. It’s recorded by a liar and a thief. It isn’t evidence and – crucially – we don’t have the jewellery box. That’s what this all hinges on.
Except I have an idea where it is.
So I flit around the office, making sure that Mark doesn’t come back, because I can’t have him interfering in what comes next. I keep half an eye on the CCTV feed from the adjacent storage facility, waiting until there’s nobody there.
It takes almost ninety minutes but, when everything is clear, I move as quickly as I can – first locking the office, then hurrying across the yard and using the master fob to get myself into Mark’s other business.
That’s the other reason I needed to go grovelling to Mark – I needed access to the computer system to check the storage locker numbers against the people who rent them.
Long rows of roller doors are inside and my footsteps echo as I head along one line before turning to check the parallel one.
And number forty-one is in front of me.
The lock-up rented by the Earring Killer.
The lock-up rented by retired Chief Inspector Kieron Parris.
THIRTY-FOUR
I use one of Mark’s master keys to open the locker and then check both ways down the long row of identical doors. There’s nobody in sight.
As I move into the gloom, I’m expecting stacks of hoarded boxes and junk. That’s what was in Dad’s garage, and it’s what Nicola told me was in her father’s storage locker.
Except it’s not true.
The space is around half the width of a regular garage and it’s empty. I pace from side to side, confused because I was so certain. There’d been a logic leap – but it wasn’t massive. Mum named Kieron on her tape – and Nicola’s mum had told me he had a storage locker. He clearly wasn’t going to keep anything incriminating at his apartment, or the house in which his daughter now lives, especially after Mum stole the jewellery box. He had to be keeping it somewhere else.
But it’s not here. There’s nothing here.
I’m about to leave when I realise there’s a light switch I missed. Despite dealing with all sorts of admin relating to this facility, I’ve spent almost no time here. The layout is something of a mystery.
As soon as I turn on the light, I realise the spaceisn’tempty, not quite. The wall at the back isn’t a wall at all: instead it’s columns of identical black packing crates stacked tidily next to one another. There are at least thirty. I check the corridor again, where it’s still empty, so head to the crates and lift the top one. It’s surprisingly light to the point that I almost drop it. Once I get it onto the floor, I unclip the sides and remove the lid.
There are handcuffs inside, along with a set of keys – plus two barely used rolls of grey gaffer tape.
With the context of everything my mother said about Kieron, I’m overtaken by a shiver, wondering if any of this was used on the women he killed. Whether it was used on Vivian’s daughter the day she never made it to her bus.
An old police uniform that I assume is Kieron’s is at the top of the second crate. I don’t know if it’s against policy for former officers to keep their old uniforms, but, even if it is, this isn’t what I’m looking for. Underneath the uniform is a solid-looking black police truncheon, as well as some sort of stun gun, or taser. It’s lighter than I would have assumed from simply looking but it feels wrong in my hand. I wonder whether this was also used on any of those women and find myself turning it around, trying to figure out how it works.
The third and fourth crates have me wondering if Nicola’s mum was correct about her husband being a hoarder. There are old phones, cables, and wires. A classic SCART lead, like those I got rid of at Dad’s. There could be evidence on the phones, or perhaps some of them belong to the murdered women. I consider calling the police – but if I’m wrong about the phones, then I’ve discovered nothing. It’s still the taped voice of a thief and liar against that of a very much alive and respected former officer.
I’m having a momentary rest, eyeing the remaining couple of dozen crates when my phone buzzes, Mark’s name on the screen.
Where ru?
I stare for a few seconds, wondering what I should do, then make a decision. I race out of the storage unit, close theclick-clackroller door and hurry back through the various corridors and connecting doors until I make it back to the landscaping yard. Mark’s BMW is parked crookedly in its spot and the lights are on inside the office.
I’m out of breath when I reach the door and Mark’s going through the drawers of my desk.
‘Saw your car on the road,’ he says. ‘I thought you were catching up before Monday?’
