Page 44 of The Tapes

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 space isn’t empty, 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 the click-clack roller 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?’

I pat my chest, trying to get the words out. ‘I’ve pretty much gone through the emails,’ I lie. ‘I was double-checking something next door…’

There’s a moment in which I wonder whether Mark’s going to want more. I’ll have to make up something about a discrepancy over which lockers are occupied – except he never asks.

‘I can’t find my phone,’ he says.

He catches my gaze as I look towards the device in his hand.

‘Not this one,’ he adds, harshly. ‘The other one.’

I spend ten minutes helping Mark search for his second phone, resisting the urge to ask why he has two, while rueing the time I’m wasting.

The phone eventually turns up within Mark’s safe.

He says he must’ve accidentally left it there while searching for Owen’s wallet.

He asks how long I’m going to be, and I say I have a couple more things to check next door.

He holds up both phones, says he has to rush – and then I watch him leave for a second time.

This time, I don’t hang around for an hour.

I’m out of breath a second time as I hurtle from one business to the other. Kieron’s locker opens as before and I head back inside, before getting back to work on the stack of crates. If he took back his jewellery box of trinkets from Mum – if that’s what cost her life – then surely it’s here?

If it’s not, I’m out of ideas.

There are more clothes in the next few crates, some that are clearly Kieron’s, others likely Nicola’s.

It’s hard to know why he’s kept them but I don’t have time to worry over that as I take down another pair of boxes.

There are more clothes in the first, but the second has another set of handcuffs, some zip ties, and a police ID card with Kieron’s photo.

It isn’t his name on the card, though.

It’s someone named Keith, which has to be a fraud.

I don’t know if the taser is illegal but the fake police ID must be – and maybe this is why so many of the Earring Killer’s victims appeared to vanish.

They were shown an ID from a man who looked like a police officer, because he was one.

Except, just in case there was an issue, he wasn’t Kieron Parris, he was Keith Jamieson.

I could call the police now – but would I trust them to deal with this, especially as I’m trespassing? Perhaps he’d have a reason for the ID, or maybe it’s not illegal anyway? Perhaps that’s his real name and I’ve somehow never known?

There’s one more box in the column, though at least another twenty to check. I start to restack the ones I’ve taken down, then pause for a breath. I had expected the locker to be rammed with clutter but, somehow, the neatness is worse.

And then I remove the lid from the final crate in the stack. There are curled zip ties at the side, and one other item nestled in the corner. The one for which I came.

A wooden jewellery box, with flowers engraved on the sides.

There are scrapes and scratches in the varnish that makes it look as if it’s been dropped more than once.

It’s how my mother described it on the tape: strangely beautiful from one angle, garishly ugly from others. I can picture it catching her eye and then her bemusement once she got it home.

There’s a gentle rattle as I pick it up but, when I remove the lid, seemingly nothing inside.

Mum mentioned there was a secret compartment, though not how to open it.

It doesn’t matter because Vivian and I will figure it out.

She’ll want to see that jet-black plastic stud for herself before we call the police.

It’s over.

Mum was telling the truth about the box; that she was murdered and didn’t disappear.

The truth about loving me.

The man who I thought was my saviour, who kept me out of prison, which allowed me to keep custody of my daughter; the father of my friend… he’s a monster.

I stand properly, still holding the box as I realise my hand is shaking.

That’s when there’s a gentle scuff from behind. I turn and Kieron stands tall, a sad, resigned smile on his face. He twists and wrenches the door closed in a single, swift movement that I know I couldn’t manage, and then turns back to me.

‘Hello, Eve,’ he says.