‘If that was a threat,’ the sergeant replied, ‘I would think better of it, if I were you. Remember Byron? I’m even bigger than him, so Lisanne tells me.’ Weekes started out of his chair, but his solicitor seized his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. ‘Morning, Frankie,’ he continued. ‘Long time no see. What do you think of your client so far?’
‘I think he’s standing up to his ordeal very well, Jack,’ the lawyer said. ‘I know what’s going on here. You’ve got another dead artist on your hands, and you’re desperate for a quick result, so desperate you’re prepared to throw one of your own to the lions.’
‘Trust us,’ McGurk told her, ‘we didn’t throw this guy anywhere. He jumped into the den, aided only by his blind stupidity.’
‘Let’s get on with it.’ Stallings switched on the tape, as she and the sergeant took their seats. ‘It’s nine twenty, this is interview room two in the police office at Torphichen Place, I am Detective Inspector Rebecca Stallings, accompanied by DS Jack McGurk, and we are about to interview Police Constable Theodore Weekes, represented by Ms Frances Birtles.’
‘Fine,’ said Birtles, ‘that’s the formalities over. Now maybe you’d tell us for the record why a serving police officer with an exemplary record has been held overnight in these atrocious conditions.’
‘Because he’s a murder suspect,’ the inspector snapped, ‘and before we go any further, let me tell you something. I’m new to this force, so I don’t know your ways, but this is my interview, this is my nick, and we’re playing by my rules. Those say that you’re here to advise your client, and that’s all. That means that I ask the questions and he answers them.’
‘I’m answering fuck all,’ Weekes growled.
‘Okay.’ She glanced to her left. ‘Jack, charge him.’
‘Hey, wait a minute!’ Birtles exclaimed.
Stallings shrugged her shoulders and began to rise. ‘That’s what’s going to happen anyway. I’m not going to waste time on him.’
‘My client will be co-operative. Won’t you, Theo?’
As Weekes nodded, fear replaced ebullience in his eyes.
‘On that basis,’ the inspector went on, ‘I’ll tell you what we’ve got. Last night we recovered clothing from the home of PC Weekes’s ex-wife. This included a canvas jacket, which, we believe, he was wearing when he arrived there on the day of Sugar Dean’s murder. From that jacket we recovered hair samples that match the victim’s. You don’t deny you were wearing the jacket that day, do you, Theo?’
‘No, but . . .’ Frankie Birtles laid a hand on his arm, then leaned close to him and whispered. He nodded again.
‘My client points out,’ she said, ‘that he owned the jacket in question during his admitted relationship with the victim, and that he had not worn it regularly since. Is that the extent of your forensic evidence?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Then will you please stop auditioning for the role of Widow Twanky, cancel this pantomime, and let my client return to his duty as a police officer?’
‘We would do,’ McGurk drawled amiably, ‘if it wasn’t for this.’ He took the necklace, in its packet, from his pocket and held it up between two fingers. ‘Sugar Dean’s father identified it this morning as his daughter’s. It was the one thing she ever had from your client that she valued, and she was wearing it when she died. Later that day, Theo gave it to his ex-wife, as a present.’ He paused. ‘And by the way, Frankie: wrong pantomime. From where I’m sitting, Becky’s Cinderella, and you are most definitely one of the Ugly Sisters.’ He switched his gaze to Weekes. ‘Okay, Buttons,’ he said, ‘talk your way out of this one.’
The effect was dramatic. The man slumped back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the tiny trinket. His eyes filled with tears and, slowly, they began to run down his face.
‘Can I have a minute alone with my client?’ Birtles asked quietly.
‘You can have all the time you like,’ Stallings told her. ‘It gets deadly serious from here on in. We don’t have the gun, but with that thing there, I don’t reckon we need it. Let us know when you’re ready, but be in no doubt about this. When we come back in here, we won’t accept anything less than a full and truthful account of what happened that morning.’
Forty
Since stopping work in the second half of her pregnancy, Maggie Steele had come to realise that many of the things she had taken for granted in her youth, in the days before she left for work early and returned late, had gone for good.
The one that annoyed her most was the unpredictability of the postal delivery service. Once she had been able to count on her mail being in the hall before breakfast. Latterly she had become used to finding it waiting for her in the evening. This was unacceptable, since she was used to an ordered life, to a daily timetable in which specific things happened at specific times. Thus she found it frustrating that her mail seemed to arrive at the whim of the postman or postwoman who happened to be on duty on any given day.
That morning she was lucky. It was five to ten, and she was loading the washing-machine, when she heard the thud of envelopes and packages from the entrance hall below, and the rattle of the closing letterbox flap. She threw in a detergent capsule, started her chosen cycle, then rushed downstairs.
When she carried the delivery into the kitchen, she saw that most of it was unsolicited, from computer companies, supermarkets and someone offering to cut the cost of her home insurance in half. Apart from those, there was a phone bill, a letter confirming her next dental appointment, and a large packet, with her address handwritten on the front and the logo of Levene and Company on the back. She tossed the rest on to a work surface and tore it open.
The annual report and accounts of Fishheads.com plc had been published almost four months earlier, when Dražen Boras, under his business pseudonym, David Barnes, had still been running the company, and when Stevie, her husband, the man he killed, had still been alive. For a few seconds, that thought overwhelmed her, but she pushed it away and focused on the document.
It was a thick, glossy publication, undoubtedly produced by a high-powered design house, with the aim of making a statement of success to shareholders, to bankers and to the financial world in general. She scanned the index. The accounts were of no interest to her, and so she went straight to the section headed ‘Directors’ Report’.
The text was sketchy, giving only headline descriptions of the company’s activities throughout the year. She guessed that the consultancy that had drafted it had taken the annual press release output and edited it into a single story. Most of the space was filled with photographs of the directors, out and about, at business meetings in Europe and further afield, in Asia and the United States . . . or, rather, of two of the directors. Most of the captions began ‘Chairman David Barnes and director Ifan Richards . . .’ The few in which Godric Hawker was seen were set in the firm’s London head office, confirming Maggie’s information that the finance director was the corporate equivalent of the footballer, Dennis Bergkamp, who never flew during the last ten years of his career. The counterpoint to this seemed to be that Barnes/Boras and Richards never seemed to travel separately.
She scanned the photographs minutely, using a magnifying-glass at times, trying to uncover anything that would take her search forward, without the vaguest notion of what that might be. Finally, she gave up. She pushed the report to one side, and thought, That was then. So what about now? Richards must be lonely.
‘Up-to-date information,’ she exclaimed suddenly, so firmly that it startled Stephanie in her carry-cot. ‘Aw, baby, I’m sorry,’ she said, picking up the infant and soothing her before her cries reached their full impressive volume.
‘Does she need feeding again?’ asked Bet, slouching into the kitchen, dressed in slippers and a knee-length T-shirt.
‘No, it was my fault.’ She looked at her sister. There were circles under her eyes, and she looked hung-over. ‘Did you creep out last night? Have you been off clubbing again?’
&n
bsp; ‘Are you nagging?’
‘No, my dear; what you put into your body . . . or who, for that matter . . . is up to you. I’m just concerned, that’s all.’
‘Sorry. No, I wasn’t on the batter. I had a sleepless night, that’s all, coming to a decision. Margaret,’ she continued, ‘once you’re a bit further into your treatment, do you think you’d be up to looking after me for a couple of weeks? I’ve been thinking about this consultant of yours, and the pre-emptive strike he wants to do on me. I’m going to talk to him, and if he persuades me, I’m going to go for it.’
Maggie placed Stephanie, restored to her slumber, back in the carry-cot. ‘I can’t tell you how happy that makes me,’ she said. ‘I trust Mr Ronald absolutely: so should you.’
‘Okay. I’ll call him once I’ve had a shower and some breakfast.’ She shuffled back into the hall.
Her sister was smiling as she picked up the phone and dialled.
‘Scotsman business,’ a familiar voice replied. Even in mid-morning it sounded tired.
‘Mo,’ she said, ‘it’s Maggie. Thanks for that contact you gave me the other day. It worked out well. Now I’m shamelessly in the market for another favour.’
‘If I can, I will. But I might ask for one in return this time.’
‘Likewise. If I can, I will.’
‘You go first.’
‘Okay. Do you ever receive press releases from Fishheads dot com?’
‘All the bloody time. It’s a very talkative company.’
‘And photographs?’
‘Yes. They like to show us what they’re up to as well as tell us. They’re not hard copy, you understand. Everything comes in electronically, these days.’
‘What do you do with them?’
‘Run the ones that are worth it: file them all for reference.’
‘Can I see them? All of them for the last three months.’
‘No problem. Do you have broadband? If not, I’ll print and post them.’
‘I’m on line.’ She recited her e-mail address.
‘Fine,’ said Goode. ‘I’ll do it after the morning news conference. Now my turn. The truth is, it’s not for me; it’s for a pal on the Evening News crime desk. He needs something for the next edition. Do you know about the Sugar Dean murder inquiry?’
‘Probably less than your mate. I’m not as clued up on CID as I used to be.’
‘Shit.’ The journalist sighed. ‘Maggie, I’m sorry. It was bloody tactless of me to ask you a question like that.’
‘It’s all right, Mo,’ she assured him. ‘I meant, being on the uniform side, that’s all. I wasn’t talking about Stevie. What is it?’
‘They’ve had a guy in the nick overnight. The press office has said that much, but they won’t give us the sniff of a name. However, there’s a rumour going round that it’s a cop. If that’s true, could you give me the nod?’
‘Let me make a call. I’ll get back to you.’
‘Thanks. Appreciated, even if you can’t help at the end of the day.’
She hung up and dialled Mario McGuire’s land line, hoping he was at his desk.
He was. ‘Hey, Blondie,’ he said, as he answered. ‘How’s your project getting on?’
‘Better than I could ever imagine. I think, or at least big Bob thinks, that I’ve found Dražen’s new identity.’ She told him about Ignacio Riesgo, the man of mystery.
‘That would fit the pattern,’ he said emphatically. ‘There’s an arrogance about the Borases, father and son, that beggars belief. So you’re chuffed with yourself, and quite right too. Is that why you’re calling, to show me you’re still a better detective than me?’
‘Nice of you to admit it,’ she replied cheerfully, ‘but no.’ She told him about Mo Goode’s favour, and heard him moan.
‘Bloody hell, Mags. They need you back there if Torphichen Place is going to be as fucking porous as that. We’ve got Andy Martin down here doing one leak inquiry as it is; I might have to start him on another.’
‘It’s not good, I’ll grant you, but I take it from what you’re saying that it’s true.’
‘Yes. The guy’s name’s Theo Weekes.’
‘I remember him. He was at Torphichen a few years back, wasn’t he? Big, good-looking lad. Fancied himself with the women.’
‘That’s him: and you’ve got him spot on. He’s in deep shit. They’ve placed him at the murder scene. They haven’t found the weapon, but they’ve got the jacket and jeans he was wearing; the lab’s giving them the full treatment, trying to find gunshot residue. Even if they don’t, he’s not going to walk from it.’
‘But?’
‘But nothing.’
‘Sure? You don’t sound a hundred per cent.’
‘Och, I am. It’s just . . . The girl was shot with a silenced nine-millimetre pistol. When the hell’s a balloon like Weekes going to get his hands on one of them?’
‘Firearms amnesty,’ she suggested. ‘It could have been surrendered, then spirited away as a souvenir. It’s happened before, in other forces.’
‘Yes, that may well be it. Mags, I don’t mind giving the News a steer on this. If they use the phrase “believed to be a policeman”, we won’t deny it, but we can’t confirm or give them a name until he’s appeared in court.’
‘And he will?’
‘Oh, yes, one way or another, he will.’
Forty-one
‘Interview resumed at ten forty-four a.m.,’ said Becky Stallings. ‘Same four people present. Ms Birtles,’ she asked, ‘does your client wish to make a statement?’
‘Yes,’ the lawyer replied, ‘his position is . . .’
The DI held up a hand. ‘No, not you. He’s going to speak for himself or we’re going to charge him right now. PC Weekes.’
The prisoner was ashen-faced: his body odour filled the room, but the detectives were used to that experience. He mumbled a few barely audible words.
‘Loud and clear, please, for the tape,’ McGurk reminded him.
‘Ah never killed her,’ Weekes repeated. ‘I was there but it wasn’t me.’
‘A bad boy done it and ran away?’ said the sergeant, caustically. ‘That’s the oldest defence in the book.’
The other man glared at him. ‘That’s what happened.’
‘So who did kill Sugar?’
‘I don’t know. She was dead when I found her, but there was nobody else there.’
‘So you admit going after her.’
‘No. I waited for her. I knew the way she went to work.’
‘How come?’ asked Stallings.
‘I’d watched her before, leaving her house in the morning, heading for the woods. I went there on my own one day and found out where the path led to. So that day I went in from the other end and waited for her.’
‘To kill her.’
‘No! Tae talk to her. To ask her what the fuck she was doing wi’ the boy, making a fool of herself.’
‘Nobody else saw it that way. His parents were happy enough to let them go to France together.’ Stallings paused then frowned at him. ‘That wasn’t news to you, Weekes, was it? You knew about that, didn’t you?’
‘No.’>
‘I think you did. Let me put something to you. Your meeting with Sugar in the Gyle centre, the one you told Mr McGuire and Mr McIlhenney about. I don’t think you arranged that at all, as you said you did.’ She kept her eyes fixed on his, leaning closer. ‘I think you were following Sugar, but you made a mistake, as you did with Mae Grey once, and she saw you. So you had to front it up. You had to talk to her. And I think that when you did, she told you that she had a new boyfriend and that she was going to France with him at the end of the term. That’s what happened, wasn’t it?’
‘No,’ he muttered.
‘Yes,’ she countered firmly. ‘This is not the time to be lying to us. I’m right; that’s what happened. And after it, you kept on following her, until you saw Davis Colledge. Come on. It’s the truth, isn’t it?’
‘Okay, okay, o
kay, it’s the truth. But I still didn’t kill her.’
‘So, tell us, what happened?’
Weekes drew a deep breath, trying to compose himself. ‘I waited for her, like I said. But she never came. I waited until after she should have reached where I was, but she never came. So I started to walk the other way, towards where she should have been coming from, along the path. And then I found her.’
‘But she was hidden away in a copse,’ McGurk told him. ‘You couldn’t have found her there.’
‘I never. I found her lying just off the path.’
‘Describe her.’
‘She was on her back, looking up at the trees, with her hands by her side. Her dress was all spread out . . . it was long, no’ one of her minis ... like she’d lain doon. She was almost smiling, ken. I never knew she was dead. I thought she was . . .’ He gulped. ‘For a minute I thought she’d seen me and was lying there waiting for me. I said, “What’s the game, Sugar?” but she never moved. Then I thought she must be ill, have fainted or something. I knelt beside her, and put my hand behind her head, to lift her up. And then I felt the blood, and looked in her eyes, and I could see that she wasn’t playing at anything.’
‘And at that point, PC Weekes,’ said Stallings, ‘you did what any serving officer would do, on or off duty, you got your mobile out and called for back-up. Only you didn’t. You left her there. Or, rather, having killed her, you hid her body and left her there.’
‘I never killed her!’ Weekes’s voice rose to a scream. Frankie Birtles grabbed his arm once more, and held it until he was calm. But she said nothing, simply waited until he was ready to take up his story once more.
‘I panicked,’ he said. ‘There was I and there was Sugar, dead. If I’d called it in, the whole thing would have come out, about me and her, and about me and Varley’s wife. Mae would have found out, Lisanne would have found out, and I’d have been booted off the force. So I hid her, okay? I dragged her into the bushes, I arranged her nice like, smoothed her hair, closed her eyes, and then I got the fuck out of there.’
‘And kept quiet as a mouse, even after her body was found?’
18 - Aftershock Page 18