The Frame

PROLOGUE

She was in that state, drifting into deeper sleep when a soft click permeated her hearing, announcing that the door had been quietly opened.

Not Alex surely? He couldn’t possibly be coming back for seconds, especially so close to the time when they were supposed to vacate the room. It was a risk too far.

She stirred, rolled onto her back, her thighs parting, as if she were trying to tempt him, offering a glimpse of the promise surrounded by her dark foliage.

And then she felt something move against her leg: something soft, something smooth and silky. Almost inconsequentially, she realised it was her underwear, those frilly panties she kept hidden from her husband, but which switched on her men friends. He was sliding them off, trying not to disturb her. A lascivious smile of lusty anticipation crossed her lips.

It soon faded. Taking them off? How could he? She wasn’t wearing them. Her eyes flickered open and her lascivious smile disappeared. Fury enveloped her. She opened her mouth, ready to scream obscenities at him.

She never said a word. The hand which had been taking the knickers from her left leg, clenched into a fist, swung across and landed with a smack on the side of her face.

The pain of a broken jaw lanced through her. She would have cried out, but she could not. To make any sound would cause her more intense agony. The blow dislodged a tooth. She spluttered, spat it out, along with a lot of blood. Her fury dissipated rapidly, and in its place came fear.

The fist came in again, and this time darkness closed in upon her.

Then came the baseball bat, its repeated blows consigning her to a dreamless sleep from which she would never wake.

CHAPTER ONE

FOUR YEARS LATER

‘Before we begin, did you not think it necessary to shower and shave before contacting me?’

Wesley Drake scowled at the image of Iris Mullins in the centre of his laptop screen. As always, the Deputy Chief Constable was immaculately attired, the silver buttons and epaulettes of her navy blue tunic gleaming in the late summer sunlight which beamed into her office. Her dark hair was neatly brushed into place, contrasting sharply with her pallid skin. But where her small mouth would usually be set into a welcoming half smile, the thin lips were pursed, prim, disapproving.

With the time coming up to noon, he had not been out of bed long. A marked change from those days when he would be up, showered, shaved, dressed by eight in the morning. These days he had nothing to get up for, and he spent most of the day in the first floor room he rented at his father’s farmhouse.

The laptop was on a workstation at the back of the room, beneath and to one side of the only window.

One corner of the workstation was heaped with correspondence, an untidy clutter, all of it read… which meant that he had scanned from ‘dear sir’ to ‘yours faithfully’ and paid only cursory attention to the bit in between. Some was from clients, others from the bank, credit card companies, and at least one from her – Samantha Feyer. He had no interest in it.

A text message from Iris asking for a video-conference call, insisting that she was waiting, had prompted him to crawl out of bed, and switch on the laptop. He did not really want to speak to her (he never wanted to speak to anyone) but down the years she had provided him with a lot of work, and simple courtesy compelled him to acquiesce.

When the laptop finally came alive, he first checked his emails. Clients dropping out with varying degrees of irritation; missed appointments, promises not kept, solutions not delivered, and another from his bank urging him to do something about his overdraft. He had money in other accounts, and one day, when he could be troubled, he would transfer funds into his current account. Buried amongst the list of emails, was a message from Howley College, formally dispensing with his services, and apologising for the electronic communication but he had not replied to the letter they sent him.

Do as you will, was his final thought before dumping the message.

From the wall above the workstation a photograph beamed down upon him. Rebecca and him enjoying a two-week holiday on the island of Kos.

They smiled into the camera, and he recalled that he’d taken the photograph by the simple expedient of setting a ten-second delay on the shutter of his digital camera.

They were on a shopping expedition, calling at the markets and souvenir shops of Marmari, and took a short break at a street café, a brief respite from the Greek sun beneath the shade of a friendly awning. It evoked so many memories: the air permeated with the tempting aroma of grilled fish, the outdoor cafés, the savoury tang of taramasalata and ouzo exciting the taste buds, the fresh island air and subtropical heat washing away the ingrained pollution of Great Britain’s towns and cities, and the hot nights of passion in the hotel room.

The sheer joy of simply being together. Rebecca Teale and Wesley Drake: inseparable. Wesley Drake and the late Rebecca Teale… separated for eternity.

The single thought sent him into a downward spiral, reliving that terrifying afternoon when he came home and found her, the almost uncontrollable fury aimed at her maniac killer, the agony of sudden solitude turning him almost overnight from a successful businessman to a recluse.

He made an effort to shake off the mood off. He had Iris Mullins to deal with.

The moment she appeared before her webcam, her disapproval was evident, hence her opening remark.

Drake remained unimpressed. ‘Did you ask me to call so you could criticise my appearance and hygiene, or was there something more important?’

The video connection wavered slightly under the raised volume of his angry voice.

‘We’ll come to that in a moment,’ Iris retorted. ‘First, however, I had an interesting chat with your father a few weeks ago.’

Drake sneered. ‘Daddy rang you, did he, to complain about his youngest son’s lack of motivation?’

‘Wrong. I called him. I was concerned about the number of times you were taken home drunk.’

He put on a throwaway air. ‘Perhaps I was looking to go to prison. Perhaps I wanted to be near to him so I could do the job properly this time.’

‘Stop it, Wesley,’ she snapped. ‘For God’s sake, man, you’re not the first young person to lose a partner, or to lose a partner in such violent circumstances. It’s a part of your stock in trade to counsel people through such difficult times. Don’t you think you should help yourself?’

Every word was a scythe through his heart. His lip curled. ‘I can’t be bothered.’

‘I know. Howley College didn’t wait for you to work out your notice, did they? They decided to do without your services after you persistently refused to do your job. Your private clients are deserting you in droves, we’ve had a comparatively peaceful summer, and we haven’t put any work your way. If your father is right, it won’t be long before you’re bankrupt.’

‘Iris—’

She talked through his attempted interjection. ‘I have work for you. It’s urgent. What I don’t have is the time, patience or inclination to deal with a self-pitying tramp. You need to work, and I need you, but I need you smartened up and looking something like the Wesley Drake I’ve known these last five years.’

There was no escaping the essential truth of her finely targeted arrows. He pulled in a deep breath and forced himself to concentrate. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve just told you⁠—’

‘Yes. I heard. What exactly do you want me to do?’

Iris took her time. He could see her burying the anger, replacing it with enforced patience. ‘You’ve heard of Rachel Jenner?’

Had he? It seemed like many months since he had last paid any attention to the news. There was never anything in it to interest him other than self-centred politicians alternately praised and castigated for one policy or another, upheaval in various parts of the world, the usual war of words between East and West. Somewhere in amongst the dross, the name of Rachel Jenner rang a bell.

He forced his stultified mind into a higher gear. ‘Jenner? Didn’t she go to prison for murder? Isn’t her appeal being heard right now?’

‘Correct on both counts. She’s been in prison for four years. What you don’t know, what no one knows other than the MoJ, the Home Office, the Chief Constable and myself is that her sentence will be quashed later this afternoon, and Rachel will be released first thing tomorrow morning, she’ll be back home by six o’clock tomorrow evening.’

‘If you know it, how come it isn’t generally known? Burying bad news, are you?’

‘Because we are the ones who will face the inevitable backlash,’ Iris explained. ‘We have to be prepared for the inevitable media onslaught later today. That’s none of your concern. What I need you to attend to is Rachel herself. I need you to clean yourself up, get over there, consult with the local police, and then speak to her.’

The fatigue, the grief, the self-indulgence of the last five months flooded his mind again. ‘To what avail?’

‘I need to know whether she’s guilty or not.’

It was an absurd proposition. It almost made him laugh. Something else he hadn’t done for many months. ‘Well, if the courts have decided⁠—’

Iris interrupted again. ‘Your brother and sister are both solicitors. So was your father before he was elected to Parliament. You know – or you should know – that guilt and innocence are the verdicts in a court of law. That is not what I want to know. I want to know if she really did murder Barbara Shawforth.’

‘Shawforth? As in Marc Shawforth?’

‘Barbara was his wife.’

Once more, Drake found it difficult to come up with an objection. ‘Jenner’s been in prison… how long did you say? Four years? She must have been assessed by psychologists, psychiatrists, she must have been counselled.’

Iris sneered. ‘Professionals run on rails. Isn’t that what you always say? The official opinion is she is guilty, and in denial. A convenient means of dismissing her claims of innocence. I need you to speak to her, Wesley. You have an insight into people which is denied many, including psychologists and psychiatrists, medics, and a whole host of well-meaning people… or at least, you did.’

Drake drummed idle fingers on the workstation and stopped, realising that the noise would carry across the microphone. ‘And if I tell you she is guilty?’

‘I trust your judgement more than anyone else… or at least, I did.’

Her repetition of those final five word, niggled. ‘You sound as if you don’t believe in her guilt.’

Iris shrugged. ‘I don’t know one way or the other. But once the judgement is announced, IOPC will be moving in to investigate what went wrong. I have, at best, a couple of weeks to prepare for them, and I need something to argue with. As far as I’m concerned, you are the best weapon at my disposal… Or you were, when you were at your best.’

He sighed again. He did not want to do it, but so much of what she had said struck at the core of his being. If nothing else, it would be a distraction.

Iris underlined her determination. ‘It shouldn’t take longer than three or four days. I’ll pick up your hotel bills, I will pay your usual fees, but I need you to get your butt in gear smarten yourself up and do this.’

He capitulated. There was never any winning with Iris Mullins. ‘All right. You say she’ll be home by teatime tomorrow. Where is home?’

‘Landshaven.’

‘Forget it. I’ll go back to bed.’

‘Wes—’

‘I said, no.’

The DCC’s anger rose quickly. ‘Is this about Sam Feyer?’

‘Partly.’

‘And there I was thinking you were a professional. Listen to me, Wesley. Sam was a wreck. You rebuilt her. On the back of your counselling, she took the job in Landshaven. She is doing an excellent job. That’s your doing. She is a professional police officer, you are a professional counsellor, a specialist in motivation, and I’m not interested in any personal beef between you. I’m asking you to behave as a professional, get over there, speak to her, speak to the other officers who were involved in the original investigation, study the files, and then talk to Rachel Jenner.’

He gave in. Iris always got her way. ‘I’ll be there first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll leave here at eight, I’ll be in the Castle Hotel by ten o’clock. Let the Landshaven police in general, Sam Feyer in particular, know that I’m coming.’

He snatched at the mousepad and shut down the call.

CHAPTER TWO

Detective Chief Inspector Samantha Feyer stepped out of the CID room on the second floor of Landshaven House, and rather than turning left towards the lift, she paused to gaze through the windows, taking in the exhilarating view of Landshaven South Bay.

If anyone had told her a year ago that she would be working in Yorkshire’s premier seaside resort, she would have laughed it off as a cheap joke, made at the expense of her well-known love of the town. One court case, the result of which was a life sentence for her ex-husband, followed by a complete physical and emotional breakdown for her, which sent her to a police convalescent home for six months of recuperation, at the end of which, the intervention of one man, had brought about this remarkable transformation. Not only was she working in Landshaven, but she was the senior officer in CID. It was a dream come true… almost.

Life on the coast was a complete contrast to working in the big cities of Leeds and Bradford. Not that there was any less crime, but it was of a lower order. Drug dealing, mugging, burglary, domestic abuse were just as prevalent here as in any of the large, industrial areas of the county, but the more serious crimes were fewer and far between. Murder was a comparative rarity and most of the time it was the result of domestic arguments gone too far. Organised crime had a relatively small hold on places like Landshaven, as a consequence of which it was easier to break up.

Even so, her life was far from relaxed. She had a team of twenty detectives to supervise, some of them covering the inland, rural and agricultural areas, along with the satellite towns of Fraisby and Whiteley. She was responsible for bringing younger detectives on, ensuring their training, and naturally, she had a large caseload to deal with. But above all, she had to contend with the station commander, Chief Superintendent Neville Trentham.

He was an easy man to work for. By and large, he left the running of CID to her, but he demanded verbal reports on a daily basis, backed up by more detailed, written accounts. The onerous task of ensuring that resources were properly allocated fell upon him, and by default, were passed along to Sam and her opposite number in uniform.

Sam tolerated the ennui of the meetings, marking it down as one of the necessities of her life. Even so, it was unusual for Trentham to call her to his office at eight o’clock on Friday morning.

And she knew what it was about. There was only one topic of discussion in Landshaven right now.

‘Rachel Jenner.’

The moment she stepped into his office, Trentham greeted her with the words she was expecting.

The chief superintendent’s enclave took up an entire corner on the top floor of the five-storey building. Unlike Sam’s smaller domain, three floors down, it offered a fine view over the bay to one side, and the town centre to the other.

Landshaven was split into two bays, of which the major centre of attraction was South Bay, a one-mile arc bordered by prominent headlands at either end, unimaginatively named North Cliff and South Cliff.

Between the two cliffs lay a fine, sandy beach, stretching all the way from the base of South Cliff until it met the stone-built wall of the harbour. And on the other side of that harbour – a thriving, if small, commercial port – stood a permanent funfair. Towering above the fairground, the three sides of North Cliff were sheer, and topped by the ruins of Landshaven Castle, a Norman fortress originally constructed to repel marauding Vikings. On the landward side of the promenade were the familiar souvenir shops, amusement arcades, and eateries, which could be found in any British seaside resort. The bells, beeps and whistles of slot and games machines in amusement arcades, mingled with the echoing call of gulls, and the thrum of traffic making its ponderous way along the narrow dual carriageway. The tempting aroma of candy floss and fish and chips permeated the air, adding to the ozone, the fresh tang of the sea carried by onshore winds.

Within the next couple of hours, the pubs would be open, the patrons sitting outside, basking in the warm, September sunshine, quenching their early thirst with a beer. On the beach, no couples and families played or reclined in deckchairs yet, but the water’s edge was quite a distance from the promenade as the tide ebbed. Further along the sands, close to South Cliff (the only area where animals were allowed) a few people walked their dogs, and some of the pets could be seen gambolling in the shallow waters or chasing a ball along the beach.

The town centre was behind them, its skyline, a higgledy-piggledy assortment of pitched roofs, dominated by the Majestic Hotel. Up there was the main shopping area, indistinguishable from 1001 other High Streets across the country. Most of it could not be seen from Trentham’s office, but the bits that were visible told them that Landshaven was in the process of winding down after a pleasant and profitable summer.

Sam had entertained a long love affair with the town. Ever since she was a little girl, growing up in the suburbs of Leeds, she had loved Landshaven. As a teenager, she and her friends had spent many a weekend trawling the pubs, sleeping it off on the beach before getting the train or bus home, and when her career took her to Bradford where she met and married Don Vaughan, they would often make the 90-minute journey to Landshaven for an evening meal and a stroll along the promenade.

Like her, Trentham was an incomer, a native of Hull, promoted and drafted in ten years previously to take command of the Landshaven force. A tall, lean, gangling man, sporting a pair of thin-framed spectacles perched on the end of his nose, but for his pristine uniform, he looked every inch the academic; his immaculate shirt perfectly pressed, tie tucked neatly under his adam’s apple, shoes shining with a mirror finish polish.

Right now, he was in a brass tacks mood and wasted no time on preliminaries. ‘As we anticipated, the Court of Appeal declared Jenner’s conviction unsafe. She’ll be released from Bronzefield at ten this morning and we expect her back in Landshaven at about six this evening.’

The timings puzzled Sam. ‘Her lawyer isn’t picking her up?’

‘Too far. It’s almost three hundred miles. According to our information, Hayley Killeen will meet Rachel at Landshaven railway station this evening.’

The chief superintendent held a copy of the previous evening’s Landshaven Gazette and turned it to face Sam. Rabid Rachel Released, screamed the banner headline, and beneath it was a four-year-old, stock picture of Rachel Jenner.

He dropped the newspaper again. ‘There’s a general air of animosity towards her which runs throughout the town, Samantha, and it’s not helped by nonsense like this.’ He tapped the newspaper as the ‘nonsense’ in question. ‘It’s our job to ensure she comes to no harm. Quite how we’re going to do that, I don’t know. That’s a problem for uniformed, not you. However, I’ve had clear instructions from Iris Mullins. You are to reopen the Shawforth case and investigate from scratch. The IOPC are due in a week or two, and they will be looking at the failures of the original investigation which led to this situation. It makes a sort of sense. You were not resident here when Barbara Shawforth was murdered, so you can come at the case with fresh eyes. In the meantime, Iris is sending in a civilian consultant to look at the case from a different angle. We’re under orders to cooperate.’

The words ‘civilian consultant’ and ‘under orders’ rang alarm bells in Sam’s head. ‘Who is this consultant?’

Trentham hesitated just long enough for Sam to second guess the answer, and her anger was ignited before her chief said. ‘Wesley Drake.’

She shook her head. ‘No way.’

‘Samantha—’

‘Anyone but him, Neville. I mean it. I’ll hand in my notice first.’

Trentham leaned back in his chair and sighed. ‘At your level, Samantha, I don’t give orders. You’re paid to control CID, and over the six months you’ve been with us, you’ve done an excellent job. I pay little attention to gossip, but I’m aware that you met with some resistance when you first arrived. You dealt with it. CID is now your domain, and that’s down to your professionalism and your, er… I hesitate to use the word obduracy.’

‘Try determination instead?’

‘That’s not exactly the word I had in mind either, but it’s appropriate. Your professional approach is the aspect I’m thinking of. I don’t know much about Drake. I’m aware that his father is an MP, and of course I know what happened to Rebecca Teale earlier this year. I’m also aware of how he helped you overcome your difficulties. His calling demands professional detachment, and that is what Iris is asking of you. I don’t know what went on between you, and frankly, I don’t want to know. You need to put it to one side and work with him.’

It was an argument that Sam found impossible to refute, short of carrying out her threat to resign. ‘Very well. But I want it noted that I object to the arrangement. I won’t be held responsible for anything that goes wrong.’

‘Duly noted. Drake is due here at about—’ The trill of his desk phone cut Trentham off. He excused himself, lifted the receiver and listened. When he replaced it, he held Sam’s gaze with his. ‘He’s here now. Sergeant Enright is bringing him up.’

CHAPTER THREE

When he entered Trentham’s fifth-floor office, Drake scanned the room, as if logging the geography in his mind on the off chance that he would need to escape. His eyes did not rest on Sam, but skipped over her as they did the rest of the room.

‘Mr Drake. A pleasure to meet you.’ Trentham rose to greet him with a warm handshake and waved him into a seat adjacent to Sam. ‘Neville Trentham. Chief Superintendent, commanding the station. I believe you already know Detective Chief Inspector Feyer.’

‘I do.’

There was much more that he wanted to say, but Drake confined himself to a brief nod of acknowledgement to Sam, and made himself comfortable, preferring to leave the opening gambit to Trentham.

It had been a tiring two-hour drive from Howley to Landshaven and it came on the back of a poor night’s sleep during which he considered the many and varied things he might say to Sam. By the time he got to Landshaven, all he really wanted to do was get to his hotel, check in and grab an hour’s rest but he had never been one to shirk unpleasant situations, and ultimately he decided to come straight to the police station the moment he arrived.

Throughout the journey, fighting traffic around North Leeds, battling with it again around York and running into the Landshaven rush hour, he had given a little thought to Iris Mullins’ request, and still he remained uncertain as to what he could possibly add to her knowledge of the crime and the (alleged) perpetrator.

He avoided reading up on the murder of Barbara Shawforth, other than the online press reports surrounding Rachel Jenner’s successful appeal. They were skimpy, lacking in detail, and that suited him. He needed to come in at ground level, and that meant learning all he could from the Landshaven police.

Trentham offered him a cup of tea, which Drake refused, and then went into his position. ‘I had a long chat with Iris Mullins this morning, Mr Drake, and⁠—’

‘Please call me Wes, Wesley if you prefer.’

‘As you wish, and I’m Neville. I tend to remain quite informal with my senior officers, and I don’t mind extending the same courtesy to you. As I was saying, I had a long conversation with Iris this morning, and she’s made your position quite clear. You are to be given access to all files concerning the Shawforth murder, the arrest and interrogation of Rachel Jenner, and the evidence which was submitted to the Crown Prosecution Service. Only a few of the original investigating officers are still with us, but those who are here will cooperate with you. Iris also said you’ll want to speak to Rachel Jenner. That, I’m afraid, is beyond our control. It will be at the behest of her solicitor, Hayley Killeen.’ Trentham put on a convincing frown. ‘However, Iris didn’t tell me what she expects of you. When I asked, she was… how can I put it? Vague.’

Drake nodded. ‘She would be.’ He sucked in his breath preparing for the inevitable argument. ‘She wants to know if Rachel Jenner is guilty.’

Sam tutted and Trentham’s eyebrows rose.

‘Well, the court has decided⁠—’

‘My thoughts, too.’ Drake cut the superintendent off. ‘She’s not