She ran a hand through her hair.
‘He walked home from the pub,’ Joe said.
Katie nodded. ‘But Marky didn’t see him after eleven fifteen. No one did. And we think Bella died between midnight and four a.m., which means…’
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. Which means our son is a suspect.
The water boiled. Joe made tea, trying to stop his thoughts from spiralling out of control. He sat down and took her hand.
‘It’ll be OK,’ he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
Katie’s eyes glazed with tears. ‘Why did he lie?’
He thought for a moment then dialled Luke’s number and heard the familiar greeting.
‘It’s Dad. Call me as soon as you get this. Or Mum. No excuses.’
Hanging up, he sipped his tea. Katie’s remained untouched.
‘He wouldn’t…’ She stopped then lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘You don’t think he’d do anything stupid…?’
Joe shook his head, trying to strike a confident note. ‘Of course not. Whatever’s going on, we’ll get to the bottom of it. He’ll be fine.’
Empty words and he knew it. Katie rummaged in her pocket for a tissue and blew her nose.
‘Our son’s a liar,’ she said. ‘Possibly worse. And I’ll have to stand down from my first major inquiry because of a conflict of interests.’
She stood up and smoothed her skirt. It was a gesture Joe knew well. Time for action.
‘I’ll ask everyone to stay shtum,’ she said. ‘Try to keep it out of the papers, but we know how much good that’ll do.’
Joe felt a wave of sympathy. ‘Sure about standing down?’
She nodded. Too upset to speak. Then she gathered herself and headed for the door.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Joe, rising from the table.
But she waved him away. ‘Find him, Joe. It’s better he comes in with you than…’ She left the sentence unfinished. Then she opened the door and walked out into the rain.
Joe watched his wife climb into her car. She sat for a moment, head bowed, then her shoulders began to heave. He took a step towards the car, to comfort her, but she saw him and started the engine. Then she drove away into the damp, grey day.
* * *
An hour later, Joe let himself into the house on Marlowe Avenue. Despite his hangover, he felt an adrenalin rush – a cocktail of confusion and fear mixed with determination to do the right thing by his family.
My herd, my flock, my pride.
Standing in the hall, he could feel his heart hammering in his chest. There could no longer be any doubt that his son had lied. But why? Joe had lost count of the parents whose lives had been devastated by misdeeds of those they’d brought into the world. The reaction was invariably the same.
Not my son (it was always sons). He couldn’t, he wouldn’t.
Joe recalled the Salamander’s parents. A retired butcher and his wife, the pair had been unable to cope with the trial, hiding their agony behind a wall of denial.
Not our Graham. He’s not like that. He couldn’t do what they say he did, not to all those women, especially little girls. Not our Graham.
‘Luke?’
Joe’s voice echoed around the house. He could tell the place was empty. He walked into the kitchen, checking for evidence of a visit by his son – a cereal-encrusted bowl, a warm kettle – but there was no sign of life. He walked up the stairs and knocked on his son’s door. Silence.
Entering the bedroom, Joe’s nostrils were assailed by the smell of boy. His spirits sank as he saw Luke’s desk. No sign of a laptop.
He opened the drawer. The sight of his son’s passport prompted a flicker of relief, as did the iPhone charger. There was cash in the drawer but no diary, no indication Luke had left with anything other than his computer and the clothes on his back. Wherever he had gone, he didn’t intend to go far, or for long, but any relief was outweighed by far bigger worries.
Was Luke involved in Bella’s death?
Was the boy Joe’s flesh and blood?
If not, did Joe really want to know?
He stood still, trying to calm his feverish brain. He sat at Luke’s desk, brow furrowed in concentration.
He’d seen something, something important, but it hadn’t registered till now. Opening the drawer again, he cast another look at the handful of cash: three tenners and a twenty. One of the banknotes had snagged in Joe’s mind. It was curled up, rolled into a tube.
He picked up the ten-pound-note. There was nothing visible to the naked eye, no giveaway smell, and a curled banknote was nothing more than circumstantial evidence.
But sometimes that was all you needed.
Replacing the cash in the drawer, Joe bent to examine the contents of the wastepaper basket: an empty yoghurt pot, a crumpled page of job ads torn from the paper, nothing of note.
Then he saw it: a piece of chewing gum clinging to the inside of the bin, like a grey snail without a shell.
Joe thought back to the websites he’d Googled the previous night – the companies specializing in DNA testing.
During the worst of his depression, Joe had been addicted to daytime TV. Day after day, people surrendered their dignity while awaiting results of paternity tests ‘right after the break’.
He sat on his son’s bed and stared at the discarded chewing gum. Then he made a decision. He retrieved the yoghurt pot from the waste bin, rinsed it in the bathroom and dried it on a towel.
Back in Luke’s bedroom, he used a pencil to tap the gum from the side of the bin into the plastic pot.
Downstairs, the rubbish had been emptied; the bin was lined with a new black bag. Letting himself into the garden, Joe saw the cat watching from his usual vantage point, on top of the wall. Male cats had been known to kill kittens spawned by rivals, but despite Spike’s fondness for biting Katie and Luke, Joe found it hard to imagine the elderly pet summoning the energy to kill anything, whatever the provocation. In fourteen years, Spike had yet to bring in a mouse or bird.
Opening the bin, he took out a bulging bag of rubbish. Removing the lid from the recycling box, he retrieved Katie’s Mail On Sunday and spread it on the ground. He tipped the garbage onto the paper, sifting through coffee grounds, potato peelings and chicken bones until he found what he was looking for.
The stub of Hugh Duffy’s roll-up.
12
Queuing for cod and chips, Joe caught sight of Adam on the TV news. Looking washed-out, the man was standing in front of the entrance to the wildlife park, alongside Felix Goodchild. The dapper lawyer was addressing a cluster of reporters.
‘This is a terrible time for my client and his family,’ he said, shooting his cuffs. ‘The police are working hard to apprehend whoever is responsible for this brutal crime.’
Joe could tell the man was relishing the limelight.
‘Mr Pennefeather has been more than happy to help the police with their inquiries,’ continued the lawyer, ‘and he will continue to do so. Meanwhile, as a tribute to Bella, Pennefeather’s Wildlife Park will reopen on Monday.’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘There will be a two-minute silence at eleven a.m., followed by the switching-on of the Panda-cam. Bella was devoted to animal conservation, the live coverage of Chinese panda cubs was her idea. She would have wanted the experience to be enjoyed by as many people as possible.’
Joe winced. Goodchild may be a small-town solicitor but he clearly had big-city ideas about milking the media for publicity.
There followed the usual pleas for anyone with information to contact the police. Then, as Felix and Adam turned to go, reporters called out questions. Joe heard a familiar Australian accent among the clamour of voices.
‘Is it true DI Katie Cassidy is standing down as senior investigating officer?’ said Chrissie McBride. ‘If so, why?’
Felix held up a hand.
‘That’s a matter for the police,’ he said.
The news report cut to the stud
io. Joe kept his eyes on the screen, waiting to see if Chrissie’s question would be followed up, but the newsreader moved on to the next item, a story about asylum seekers stowing away on cross-Channel ferries heading for Dover.
Goodchild’s words had been carefully chosen to address the fact that Adam had been questioned by police on three successive days and kept in custody overnight. The wily lawyer was at pains to emphasize that his client was cooperating of his own free will but even a casual observer would surely put Bella’s father at the top of the list of suspects.
Joe wasn’t so sure.
Adam’s fascination with murderabilia made him a magnet for suspicion. He’d lied about the scratches on his wrist. He’d also had a turbulent relationship with his daughter and, if the iPhone diary was to be believed, might well be guilty of child abuse. As to the source behind Chrissie’s question, Canterbury nick was full of people keen to make a few extra quid. Joe had a shrewd idea who was behind the leak.
Paying for his fish supper, he returned to his car, strolling along a row of neat Georgian houses illuminated by soft, pink light spilling from old-fashioned street lamps. Settling behind the wheel of the MG, he placed the fish and chips on the passenger seat, salivating at the smell. He’d eaten nothing all day – anxiety was a great appetite suppressant – but now he was ravenous. The day had passed in a blur, hurtling from one location to another, checking out his son’s haunts, talking to his friends, verifying what Marky and Dylan had told Katie about Luke’s movements on the night Bella died.
Joe had spoken to Katie twice – once when she called to let him know that Luke’s mobile was being tracked, once to report that he’d drawn a blank on their son’s whereabouts. On both occasions she’d sounded calm but Joe knew the true picture was very different. He was about to bite into a chip when his mobile rang. An old photo of his son flashed up on the screen. A baby. A lifetime ago.
‘Luke?’
Silence. He softened his voice. ‘Luke…? Are you OK?’
His son’s voice was tremulous. ‘Is it because of me?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Mum standing down from the case. It was on TV. Is it because of me?’
Joe sidestepped the question. ‘Where are you? I’ll come and get you.’
No response. He could hear the sea in the background. A disturbing image came to mind. His son on a cliff-top. Close to the edge.
‘Everything will be OK, Luke.’
He could hear the fear in his son’s voice. ‘I messed up, Dad. I really messed up.’
‘We need to talk about what’s going on. Tell me where you are.’
‘Not if you’re going to tell Mum.’
Joe stifled a sigh. ‘I’ll help you do the right thing. But you’re not a kid. Whatever’s going on, you need to make some adult decisions.’
Another pause.
‘I want to talk to you first,’ said Luke. ‘Then I’ll talk to Mum.’
‘It’s a deal,’ said Joe. ‘Now, where are you?’
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, he drove past the fisherman’s cottages that led down to the beach. The fishermen were long gone, displaced by second-homers – an actor, a best-selling novelist – or hardy residents willing to batten down the winter hatches in exchange for summer months when skies were blue and everyone liked to be beside the seaside.
Luke was outside the whitewashed pub, sitting at a table opposite a row of gaily-painted beach huts. Looking out across the Channel, Joe could see a faint orange glow emanating from the Pas de Calais. His memory skipped to his first school outing to France. He’d witnessed an accident in Boulogne – a man killed by a lorry, knocked off his bike in a sun-baked square. Joe remembered the moment of realization: life boiled down to a few turning points – random encounters, snap decisions – after which things were never the same.
Luke’s hoodie was raised, his face partially hidden. Joe sat at the table and tried not to stare at the copper-coloured goatee, focusing on the rucksack on the bench.
‘Did you sleep rough?’
Luke nodded and took a sip of beer.
‘So what’s going on?’ said Joe.
‘Can’t we talk about football?’
Luke’s smile was nervous. Joe rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers.
‘A young woman was murdered, Luke. If you know something – anything – you need to tell me.’
His son averted his gaze, staring out to sea.
‘Is there a connection to cocaine?’ said Joe.
His son’s eyes widened. ‘What cocaine?’
‘I searched your room. There’s a rolled-up tenner in your desk.’
Luke rolled his eyes. ‘Ninety per cent of banknotes test positive for cocaine, Dad. Actual fact.’ Joe opened his mouth to reply but his son was filled with righteous indignation. ‘Do you have any idea what it’s like living with coppers? “Meet Mum and Dad, they’re with the Stasi.”’
‘I’m not a copper now,’ said Joe evenly. ‘I’m your father. Besides, it’s not ninety per cent, more like ten.’
Luke took another swig of beer. ‘Whatever.’ He fell silent for a moment, staring down at the table, then shrugged. ‘OK, I lied.’
Joe felt his stomach churn. ‘Now would be a good time to start telling the truth.’
His son hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself as small as possible, burying his hands in his pockets.
‘I knew her.’
‘Bella Pennefeather?’
A nod. Luke’s words came out in a rush. ‘But I only found out her last name when Mum said she’d been killed and you showed me that photo. Till then, she was just “Bella”. I didn’t know she was anything to do with Adam Pennefeather. When Mum said she’d been murdered I panicked so I lied. Then there was no going back so I lied again. They found hair in the car, and I knew it was Bella’s, but I kept on lying.’ A sob escaped from his mouth. ‘I’m such an idiot.’
He gripped his glass.
‘Let’s stick to the facts,’ said Joe. Listening for a lie. Watching for a tell. ‘Why did you panic? Why did you lie?’
Luke blew his nose. ‘I met her a couple of weeks ago, in the pub. She was after coke. I thought she was fit so I said I could get some.’
‘From where?’
Luke gave him a sheepish look. ‘Bloke I met in Margate. They call him “the Connection” but he’s just a small-time dealer, and before you ask, no, I don’t know his real name.’ A sniff. ‘He said he could get hold of anything so I bought coke from him when I went back with Dylan.’
‘On Monday afternoon?’
Luke nodded. ‘I saw Bella that night and gave her some.’
‘Gave or sold?’
Luke stared at his trainers. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible. A single word but it made a world of difference.
‘Sold.’
Joe made sure his expression remained neutral. ‘How much?’
‘Two grams,’ said Luke. ‘For starters. She only had eighty quid in cash. I didn’t make a profit. I was just grandstanding because I fancied her.’ He met his father’s gaze. ‘Didn’t you ever show off to a pretty girl?’
Joe ignored the question. ‘How much did you buy?’
Luke looked out to sea. ‘Five grams.’
Joe closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his son looked stricken.
‘Where on earth did you get two hundred quid?’
‘That decorating job in Sandgate,’ said Luke. ‘But the Connection only charged me one-eighty. I got a discount…’ He tailed off, looking away. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry.’
Joe nodded. Fighting to remain calm.
‘Talk me through Monday evening. Tell me exactly what happened.’
He listened to his son’s account of the night Adam’s daughter had died. After driving to Margate and parting company with Dylan, Luke had met the drug dealer and bought five grams of cocaine. Just after eight o’clock he’d kept a rendezvous with Bella
in the Admiral Nelson. He gave her two grams, with a promise of more to come. They drove to the woods near Kingsdown, snorted two lines of coke and had sex. Driving back, Bella’s hair had flapped in the wind; a few strands becoming trapped as she’d closed the passenger window. Luke remembered a yelp as she’d yanked her hair free. Just before ten p.m. he drove her back to her Peugeot, parked outside the pub. That was the last time he saw her. Back at the pub, he’d had a couple of drinks with Marky, emerging at eleven to find Katie’s car was gone, along with the remaining three grams of coke stashed in the visor.
‘Then I walked home,’ finished Luke, blowing his nose again. ‘And that’s all I know.’ He looked at Joe. ‘You do believe me?’
Joe searched his son’s eyes. ‘Of course.’
Luke sighed, relieved to have unburdened himself. He took a sip of beer.
‘So what happens now? And don’t give me any “it’s all going to be OK” bullshit.’
Like mother, like son.
No point mincing words.
‘Now the shit hits the fan,’ said Joe. ‘All this will come out in public. You’ll get a criminal record that will affect the rest of your life. Job prospects. Travel. Relationships. Everything.’ His mouth was dry.
‘Fuck,’ said Luke. ‘What’s the worst-case scenario?’
‘Maximum penalty for possession of class-A drugs is seven years in prison and an unlimited fine.’ Luke blew out his cheeks as his father continued. ‘For possession with intent to supply, the maximum is life imprisonment.’
His son’s eyes widened. ‘But I won’t actually go to prison, will I? I mean, Queen bloody Victoria took cocaine. So did Sigmund fucking Freud—’
Joe interrupted. ‘Do yourself a favour. Stop talking.’
He was torn. He wanted to give his son a fright. He also needed to draw a line under Luke’s confession and get to the truth about Bella.
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