‘Let’s find a room.’
He was out of breath as they went into one of the small interview rooms, where she’d sat with Sean Martin earlier that day to take his statement.
‘What has he said about New Year’s Eve?’ Richards said.
‘He stayed in, watching TV with a bottle of wine.’
‘With Trudy?’
‘So he said.’
Richards smiled and opened the bag, reaching in to pull out a laptop. Murdoch was tapping the table with impatience as it booted up. ‘We’ve no time for drama. Make it quick.’
He pulled a small USB stick from his pocket. ‘I’ve put it all on here.’
He inserted the stick and navigated the laptop until he found the file. A video started to play, dark grainy footage of the rear of a building, the yard lined by razor wire. The canal was beyond the wall, a gleaming dark strip.
‘It’s from a tool hire firm, around a hundred yards from the Hare and Hounds, where Charlotte Crane went missing from.’
Murdoch leaned forward. ‘Sean would reach this place before he got to where Lizzie was found.’
‘Exactly, and look at the time,’ and he tapped the screen where the clock was showing. ‘Twenty minutes past midnight. I called the firm. The clock on the CCTV is accurate.’
Murdoch’s mouth went dry as she watched. The clock seemed to crawl forward as the screen stayed static apart from the flutter of moths caught by the glare of the security lights.
Then she saw it.
Richards pressed the pause button. ‘There, look.’
Murdoch leaned closer to the screen and she grinned. ‘You little bastard, I’ve got you.’
* * *
Dan had to remain calm. Sean Martin had his hands held in front of him, his expression serene, unconcerned.
Dan connected his laptop to the Clickshare software used by the court. It allowed him to project whatever was on his laptop on to the large television screens on the walls of the courtroom.
‘Mr Martin, I’m going to play you some CCTV footage. If you’ll look towards one of the screens.’
The CCTV from New Year’s Eve flashed up on to the screen.
He’d put in the disk from the camera showing the pub car park where Lizzie was assaulted. The tension in the courtroom was palpable as everyone watched once more the events that led to Lizzie’s murder. Lizzie and Liam arguing. His punch. Lizzie falling backwards to the floor and people intervening, pushing Liam back and keeping him away. As before, Lizzie got up and rushed from the car park, into the shadows of the buildings close to the canal.
‘Can you see the time on the footage, Mr Martin?’
‘Yes, I can, but I wasn’t there, so what has this to do with me?’
‘I ask the questions, not you,’ Dan snapped. ‘Twelve twenty-three and thirty seconds when Lizzie leaves the car park. Do you agree?’
‘Yes, fine.’
Dan ejected the disk and put in another one, this time the disc showing the canal footage. It was mainly in darkness, apart from the jagged outlines of rooftops and the streetlights from the estate on the other side. He forwarded the footage until he got to the point he wanted.
‘Can you see the time on this footage?’
Sean squinted towards the screen. ‘Twelve twenty-four, it looks like.’
‘In the distance, what do you think that is?’
‘The small light on the water?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know, it’s too hard to tell.’
‘Canal boats use a solo headlight mainly, don’t they, like a large torch, shining ahead just enough to show any hazards?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Is that your boat?’
‘How can anyone tell from that?’
Dan’s cheeks flushed. Sean was hedging his bets, not knowing what else the footage would show. ‘You sounded more certain about where you were a few minutes ago. You stayed in, you said, were sure of it. Now I’m showing you a boat, you’re backing off.’
Sean’s gaze darkened. ‘Is that a question?’
Dan leaned forward, wanting to get closer to him. His teeth were bared when he said, ‘It’s not an ordinary night, is it? It’s one of the most special nights of the year, but now you’re not as sure where you were?’
‘Who can be completely sure?’
‘So, it’s possible that you took your boat out on New Year’s Eve?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You’re not ruling it out though?’
Sean looked to the screen and pursed his lips, but didn’t give an answer.
‘Your evidence now,’ Dan continued, ‘if I’m getting this correctly, is that you’re not sure whether you stayed in with Trudy or not, or whether you went out on your boat or not. Is that right?’
Sean faltered. ‘I was at home, most likely, with Trudy.’
Dan smiled and nodded. ‘Most likely,’ he repeated, and pointed to the screen again. ‘Twelve twenty-five. Notice how the boat has stopped?’
The judge leaned forwards. ‘Save this for a closing address, Mr Grant. I get your point, as well as the fact that we have no evidence that it’s the boat linked to the witness.’
Dan slammed his hand on the desk, making the jurors jolt back in their seats. ‘We do have evidence, from the defendant himself, Peter Box, who’d tracked the boat from the marina. That’s why he was there, waiting.’
The judge’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, Dan knew he’d gone too far, but he didn’t care. He wanted Sean Martin and he wasn’t about to be side-tracked by the judge.
‘Of course, Mr Grant,’ the judge said, an angry quiver to his voice. ‘I meant evidence to corroborate what he says, as you well know. Move on.’
Dan glared at the judge for a few seconds before he nodded his assent and turned back to Sean. Control yourself, he told himself, but he knew he was losing that struggle.
‘Do you have problems with your memory, Mr Martin?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You were quite certain that you knew Claire Watkins when you gave your evidence before.’
Sean left it a few seconds before answering, thinking about his answers. ‘Yes, of course, it’s not every day that someone who lives nearby goes missing.’
‘And you spoke to her when you passed her in the street. Correct?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘When Peter was there.’
‘That’s how I knew he liked her, because he’d blush and get all nervy. Not that he’d ever have a chance with her, which must have burned away at him.’
‘Your memory of her sounds vivid.’
‘My memory of Peter’s reaction is vivid.’
‘And you knew her by name?’
‘Of course.’
Dan floated a copy of the police notebook across to Francesca, whose eyebrows lifted when she read it. He passed two copies to the usher, who handed one to the judge and the other to Sean.
Dan lifted his own copy in the air. ‘Please read out what it says on there, Mr Martin.’
Sean reached into his jacket pocket for his glasses, and Dan thought he detected a tremble of his fingers as he put them on to his nose. He flushed as his eyes scanned the handwritten entry.
Dan held up the piece of paper for the benefit of those in the public gallery. Even if he didn’t succeed in court, he had to get the press to want to destroy Sean. ‘This is from a police officer who spoke to people in the area following Claire’s disappearance.’
Francesca leaned across and whispered, ‘Are you calling the officer as a witness to confirm this?’
He bent down to hiss back, ‘I got it from your witness, DI Murdoch, who accessed the case file. I can call her, if you insist.’
Francesca waved her hand. ‘Fine.’
Dan turned back to Sean. ‘Would you read it out, please, for the benefit of everyone in the courtroom?’
Sean swallowed. There was a croak to his voice. ‘Sean Martin. Lives on a barge but stays frequen
tly at number 12 Houghton Street. Does not know Claire Watkins but has seen the newspaper reports. Said that he didn’t speak to many people around there and had never met her.’ He looked up. ‘That’s it.’
He put the paper down.
‘Is that what you told the officer?’
‘I don’t know. It was a long time ago.’
‘You seem to be having trouble with your memory today, Mr Martin. I’ll make it easier for you. Is what’s written down there the truth?’
‘It’s not accurate, no.’
‘I asked you about truth, not accuracy. Is it true?’
A pause, and then, ‘No.’
‘You told a lie to the police.’
He shrugged. ‘The officer must have got it wrong.’
‘An officer who has been given the job of speaking to people about Claire Watkins wrote down incorrectly what you told him about Claire Watkins?’
‘I can’t answer for the officer.’
Dan detected a sheen of his sweat on Sean’s forehead. He was rattled but Dan knew he didn’t have enough. All he’d done was give the usual collection of jabs and pokes at a witness. At best for Peter’s case, Sean was inconsistent and potentially untruthful. That didn’t make him a murderer.
His concentration was disturbed by the clatter of the courtroom door, and then the murmurs from the gallery as someone made their way into the well of the court.
Dan was distracted. It was Murdoch, who was whispering into Francesca’s ear before leaning across the desk to pass something along. A USB stick skidded along the desk.
Dan looked down at it, unsure, before turning to Murdoch, who nodded and pointed at it, her eyes wide.
‘Mr Grant?’
When Dan looked up again, the judge was sitting forward, glaring at him.
‘Have you any more questions, Mr Grant?’
He straightened and turned back towards Sean. All he could do was keep going.
* * *
Bill put his head back. ‘I need some water.’
Trudy looked towards a bottle on the floor, by the lamp shining directly at him. She picked it up and went over to him. The water fizzed as she opened it. She held it over Bill’s mouth, who opened like a baby bird, desperate for the fluid.
Grinning, Trudy poured it over him, bringing a gargled howl from Bill, who tried to lap at the water as it ran down his face.
Trudy threw the bottle over her shoulder. It made an empty rattle as it hit the floor.
Bill let his head hang for a few seconds, just to control his despair. When he looked up again, his resolve had strengthened. ‘What if Sean is found out at court? You’ll only realise when the police come down the stairs.’
‘That isn’t going to happen. Sean is too clever for that.’
‘He might be looking after himself, selling you out.’
Trudy’s eyes flared. She crossed to the other side of the cellar and retrieved the knife from where she’d put it, lying within reach on one of the stone steps. When she returned to Bill, she was angry, going straight for him.
She slashed wildly with the knife, cutting a deep gash across Bill’s chest and then back across his cheek. Blood gushed down his face and spread quickly across his shirt, soaking it red.
The pain was immense, white hot, burning.
Bill put his head back and screamed.
* * *
Dan turned off the Clickshare software that transmitted his laptop screen to the courtroom televisions. He fumbled with the USB stick as he inserted it into his laptop.
‘Mr Grant?’ It was the judge, querying the pause in questions.
Dan ignored him as video footage began to play. Murdoch was engaged in a hissed conversation with Francesca before she scribbled a note on a scrap of paper and slid it across the desk to Dan.
He read. Near to where Charlotte Crane was last seen. Go to 12.20.
When he looked across, Francesca was scowling but Murdoch was nodding, imploring him to look.
He navigated to where the files on the USB stick were located and clicked play on the first one.
He was conscious of the jury waiting for him, curious about a possible late development, but he wasn’t going to be rushed.
A grainy image filled his screen. He noted the date along the top of the screen, 1 January, along with the time. The footage started just before midnight.
He scrolled through, the image never changing except for the bugs and moths caught by the lights close to the camera, until he got to the right time.
‘Mr Grant, what’s the delay?’ the judge insisted.
Dan allowed the video to carry on playing, visible only to him, as he turned back to Sean Martin.
‘Do you know Michael Crane?’
There was a flicker of recognition, a widening of his eyes, before he settled into his practised stance. ‘Yes, I do know him. One of my critics.’ He shrugged. ‘It happens. Despite the verdict, some people never let go.’
Dan could tell from the slight tremble to his voice that Sean’s nonchalance was faked. He didn’t know what was coming.
‘Do you know that Michael’s wife, Charlotte Crane, went missing at around the time that Lizzie Barnsley was killed?’
Sean pursed his lips and delayed his answer, trying to think ahead. ‘I’d heard of a missing person named Charlotte Crane. I hadn’t made a connection until I saw Michael Crane’s article about the search for his wife. Quite critical of the police, I remember, but I don’t know the details. Why would I?’
‘Charlotte was last seen in the Hare and Hounds public house in Highford just after midnight. Were you in the area?’
‘Define area.’
‘Were you sailing along the same stretch of canal as the Hare and Hounds?’
‘I’ve told you, I was at home.’
Dan’s laptop screen distracted him. He leaned down to look. There was a boat moving slowly along the canal.
Dan jabbed at the pause button and saw it. He wanted to punch the air and had to suppress his triumphant grin, but instead he asked, ‘What’s the name of your boat, Mr Martin?’
‘Somewhere Quiet. Why?’
Dan straightened. ‘You abducted her, didn’t you?’
He laughed. ‘Nonsense.’
‘You abducted her and murdered her, as an act of revenge against her husband?’
Sean looked around the courtroom, his hands out. ‘How can he be allowed to say this?’
‘Mr Grant, you better have some evidence for this,’ the judge warned.
Dan scrolled the footage back before pressing the Clickshare button. His laptop screen filled the televisions once more.
All eyes went to the footage.
‘Look at the time and date, Mr Martin,’ Dan said. ‘Do you see? It says the first of January, twelve twenty a.m.’
Sean glared at the television screen but said nothing.
‘This is close to the Hare and Hounds, just further along the canal.’
‘And?’
‘Keep watching.’
The courtroom was silent as the footage played, and then there was a gasp from the public gallery as a boat cruised into view.
Dan pressed the pause button, freezing the image on the screen.
The boat was static now. Even in the graininess of the footage, the name was visible, painted on the side of the boat. Somewhere Quiet.
‘Are you still sure you stayed in?’
Sean didn’t respond.
Dan clicked off the footage. He snarled when he said, ‘You abducted Charlotte Crane. That is why you were cruising the canals around midnight on New Year’s Eve, to meet her, to take her and kill her, wasn’t it? Admit it!’
As Sean’s hand went to the edge of the witness box and gripped it tightly, Dan knew that he had him.
* * *
Jayne shrank back, terrified.
The scream had come from somewhere below. Stairs went to an upper floor, the bannister rails broken and jagged. Faint strains of light leaked from the bottom of a doorw
ay under the stairs. It must lead to a cellar.
She took out her phone fumbling with it, and sent a message to Dan. Someone here. A scream. Get help. Quick. She dropped her phone as she tried to put it away, and it clattered along the floor.
Jayne cursed and stayed still. For a moment everything was quiet, apart from gasps of pain coming from below her. Then she heard footsteps coming upstairs.
She scrambled across the floor to retrieve her phone. She could escape, make an emergency call, just keep on running.
But she didn’t know who was down there. She couldn’t just run away. Someone was in agony. Running wasn’t an option.
There was a room ahead to the left, at the back of the property, the light blocked off by the wooden boards she’d seen from the outside.
She bolted in there, trying to keep her footsteps silent, and found the darkest corner, on the same wall as the door but away from where the light came through in narrow beams. She crouched behind the door. She didn’t want any light to catch the brightness of her shirt. At least her suit was dark.
A door opened. Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Then silence.
Jayne held her breath and closed her eyes.
The seconds dragged as she waited for someone to come into the room she was in, her ears straining for any hint that she was being approached.
The bare floorboards creaked. Jayne didn’t think she could hold her breath any longer. She was about to let it out when the floorboards creaked again. Whoever it was had retreated. They didn’t go back down the stairs.
She put her head back and closed her eyes, let her heartbeat slow down. She stood up and went to the doorway, flattening herself against a wall. She expected it to be a trick, that someone would surprise her.
Jayne trembled as she realised she had no choice but to look.
There was no one there. Just the sunlight outside.
She went to the door the person – Trudy? – had come from. It was old and heavy with a bolt on one side; it had been left closed but unlocked. It was from there that the scream had come. Whoever had screamed, she was sure it hadn’t been Trudy.
The Darkness Around Her Page 33