by M. A. Hunter
How could I feel tired with that hanging over me?
‘We can stop for coffee if you need it,’ I say, smiling at Jack, uncertain how else to show my appreciation for him driving me up here despite his extensive injuries.
He was attacked by an amateur boxer while chasing leads linking Tomlinson to the ring, so I can’t help feeling responsible for his current condition. He assures me he bears no grudge, but he should be resting rather than driving me four and a bit hours from Weymouth.
‘It might be an idea to get a snack before we drive over there too,’ Jack adds. ‘We’ve no idea how long this is going to take.’
I know he’s talking sense, and sustenance is a good idea, but I’m desperate to get in there and hear what the suspected shooter – Kylie Shakespeare – has to say for herself.
‘Okay,’ I say reluctantly, not wishing to annoy him, ‘but I did tell DS Yates we’d be there between five and six, and I don’t want her to think we’re not coming.’
Jack moves the car forward as the light switches to green. ‘Of course. I wasn’t thinking. That’s fine.’
My head snaps round. ‘If you’re hungry, Jack, then you should get something to eat. All I was saying was, could we make it a burger at a drive-thru, or similar? Or maybe you could drop me at the station first, and then grab some food after?’
He meets my stare, but there is no animosity in his eyes, which is a relief. ‘You’re right; I’d forgotten what you’d said to DS Yates. We’ll head straight to the station, and then I’ll grab us something afterwards. Are you sure you’re okay about all of this?’
I frown, confused by the question; why wouldn’t I be okay?
‘It must have crossed your mind,’ Jack continues, splitting his gaze between the road and my continued confusion, ‘that this could be another of their traps?’
‘The “their” he’s referring to are those connected to the trafficking ring who have been producing and distributing underage pornographic material, and we suspect killing the children they’ve been abducting and abusing. The same people who hacked our phones and tablets with software to track our GPS and keystrokes. Thankfully, Jack is more tech savvy than I am, and has removed the incriminating software, so I finally feel like we can talk without being overheard.
‘Of course it’s crossed my mind,’ I admit.
The reason Jack is having to hide how much pain he’s actually in is that he followed an anonymous tip about someone guaranteeing information to tie Tomlinson to the ring, but after Jack arrived at the pub to meet the contact, he was driven off the road, and was lucky to survive. His car is still at the garage being repaired, which is why we’re in this courtesy car. I’ve thought about little else since DS Sarah Yates’s phone call. Whilst I’ve been busy putting together the pieces of the jigsaw, Tomlinson is killed in suspicious circumstances and the suspect demands to speak to me. I’d have to suffer with anosmia, not to sense that something smells very fishy here.
‘But what choice do I have?’ I say to Jack now. ‘Whoever this Kylie Shakespeare is, she might have valuable information that will help us tie Tomlinson to our investigation. We’ve talked at length about how such a ring could go undetected for all this time. We’re talking more than thirty years of children going missing and those sick films being made. Just think, if it weren’t for my crusade against Arthur Turgood and his conspirators at the St Francis Home, we never would have found the video files on his hard drive. I’m an investigative journalist first and foremost, so how can I turn down the chance to tie it all together?’
‘That’s exactly what worries me most,’ Jack says, sighing and turning down the heating. ‘We’ve had to fight to get as far as we are now, and just when we thought they were shutting us down by applying pressure to have the official NCA investigation closed, up pops the key to all our problems. You can see why I’m more than a little suspicious about all of this, can’t you?’
I know his question is because he’s concerned about me, rather than that he doubts my integrity as a journalist.
‘Absolutely, but it’s not like I’m having to follow the lead down some darkened alley where I could be in danger. I’m meeting her in a busy, bustling police station, surrounded by those who’ve made it their vocation to protect the public and serve justice. If anything, I couldn’t be safer.’
‘Mmm,’ he mutters, but doesn’t offer any further thoughts on the subject. ‘And you definitely don’t recognise the suspect’s name?’
I’ve been racking my brain since we left Dorset for any kind of connection to a Kylie or the family name Shakespeare. Aside from the bard himself, I don’t know anyone with that surname, and there are no contacts in my phone with the name Kylie. It could of course be a false name, but surely the police would have to verify her identity before proceeding with booking her in and interviewing her? I’ve even messaged my best friend Rachel to see what she can find about the name, but her internet searches have been as unproductive as mine.
My phone vibrates as she messages me again, confirming there is no Kylie Shakespeare listed on the Anna Hunter Foundation database. The charity, of which we are trustees, allows those who’ve suffered as a result of a missing person to seek either emotional or financial support.
Jack turns on the car stereo. ‘It’s nearly six,’ he adds. ‘We should probably check whether there’s any further news being reported about the shooting. The last thing you want is to be blindsided.’
He tunes the radio into a local station, and we wait for the news to start.
‘More now on the fatal shooting at the home of local resident and former Metropolitan Police Commissioner Sir Anthony Tomlinson. Leicestershire police have yet to make a further statement in respect to their investigation following what was relayed shortly before lunchtime. We know that the victim’s neighbours called police at around about six o’clock this morning to report the sound of several gunshots in the vicinity, and a passing patrol car was on the scene minutes later. The small cul-de-sac was quickly cordoned off, trapping the suspect inside the Tomlinson family home, a modest four-bedroom property with no method of escape save for via the road. A line of communication was opened with the suspect, and after several hours of negotiation, she allowed the police to enter the property and bring her out in cuffs. We believe Sir Anthony was the only person at the property at the time of the incident. The suspect was taken to the police station in Market Harborough at around ten o’clock, and is yet to be released. We are expecting a further statement from the Detective Inspector leading the investigation before eight o’clock tonight. Our thoughts and prayers are with the Tomlinson family this evening.’
Jack and I exchange glances. I suppose no news is good news; I’m relieved there was no mention of the demand that I come to the police station, but as we enter the town centre, I’m suddenly worried that I’ll have to fight my way through a throng of reporters all eager to get an exclusive scoop. Given my history, I’m not entirely sure what they would make of my presence here.
Thankfully, there is nobody waiting outside the station as we arrive on Fairfield Road. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the building looks more like a social hall than a police station, save for the navy-blue stripe running through the middle of the brickwork. A rundown wooden bus shelter and public bench block our view of the front of the building, but although there are lights on inside, the place looks closed up for the night.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Jack says as he spots my furrowed brow. ‘This is definitely the right place, isn’t it?’
I double-check the satnav, before searching online, but this is the address of the only police station within a couple of miles of the town centre. Surely if they’d moved her to a different station, DS Yates would have phoned and advised. Unfortunately, she called from a withheld number so I’ve no way of phoning her back to check.
Jack indicates at the next junction and pulls up at the side of the road. We’ve parked on a thick yellow line, but there don’t a
ppear to be any traffic wardens around, so hopefully we’ll be safe. Unfastening my seat belt, I exit and hurry to the front door, but my worst fears are confirmed by a laminated page in the window.
‘They closed at four,’ I tell Jack when he’s hobbled over. ‘I don’t get it. DS Yates definitely told me to come here, and she knew I wouldn’t be arriving until after four.’
Jack presses his face against the window, his breath misting the glass. ‘There is a light on inside,’ he mumbles, ‘so there must be someone here.’ He bangs his fist against the glass several times.
A moment later, a pair of eyes appear on the other side of the glass, and a bony finger points at the laminate.
‘DS Yates phoned me and told me to come down here,’ I shout through the glass. ‘My name’s Emma Hunter.’
The eyes narrow, so I hold out my open passport to confirm my identity. Jack too holds up his warrant card. A moment later the eyes return and the officer in black unlocks the door, allowing us to enter.
‘Who did you say called you?’ he asks.
He can’t be much older than Jack, though has more of a wiry frame, and his thick brown hair is pulled into a messy bun at the back of his head.
‘DS Sarah Yates,’ I explain. ‘My name is Emma Hunter and I’m a writer-cum-journalist. She phoned me around one, and asked that I drive from Weymouth to see her.’ I pause, choosing my words carefully, before whispering, ‘It’s in relation to the shooting this morning.’
He considers the two of us for a moment, before turning to Jack. ‘And you are?’
‘I’m PC Jack Serrovitz from the Met. I work with Emma occasionally and I drove her up here.’
Satisfied, he takes a long gulp from his mug of hot chocolate before allowing us entrance to the station proper, and asking us to wait in the reception area while he calls it through. It’s cold inside the reception area, and I cup my hands to blow warm air into them, having left my anorak in the car.
‘You want my jacket?’ Jack offers, but I shake my head with a smile. Now is not the time for chivalry. I still haven’t forgotten the disappointed look on Rick’s face when he saw Jack and me together when we left my flat. But I need to push all thoughts of my complicated love life out of my head.
The hipster police officer returns with a grim expression on his face. ‘DS Yates is currently in a team brief, but will come down as soon as it ends. You’ve been asked to wait here.’
I nod my understanding, though would much prefer to be somewhere warmer. ‘I think she wanted me to speak with the suspect, Kylie Shakespeare, so would it be possible for us to wait somewhere for that?’
He shakes his head. ‘I was told that’s not happening anymore, and you’re to wait here until DS Yates arrives.’
My chest tightens. ‘What do you mean that’s not happening anymore? We’ve just spent five hours in a car driving up here.’
He holds his palms out apologetically. ‘I’m sorry but I really don’t know. That was what I was told. I’m sure DS Yates can explain matters when she comes down.’
He takes his leave and returns to the small office behind the reception desk.
‘You should go and get something to eat,’ I say to Jack. ‘It doesn’t need both of us to freeze.’
‘That’s all right, I don’t mind waiting with you. It’s nice to be out of the car to have a stretch, to be honest.’
I’m grateful he’s said that, as I have a horrible feeling sinking through my body right now. The reception area isn’t very big, and is lined with chairs, but I manage to find a little circuit I can pace just to try and warm up. I’m about to ask Jack whether I can go and collect my anorak from the car when a youngish woman with dark-brown hair and perfectly shaped eyebrows comes through the security door beside the reception counter. She looks tired, her shoulders hunched slightly, and the blouse which was probably neatly pressed bears the strain of a suit jacket being slipped on and off repeatedly over the course of the day.
‘Emma?’ she asks softly as she approaches.
‘Yes,’ I say warmly, ‘and you must be DS Yates?’
She doesn’t reflect the positivity I’m projecting, and the sinking feeling in my gut worsens. ‘Thank you for coming up; hopefully traffic wasn’t too bad?’
I shrug. ‘It was fine.’ I point to Jack. ‘This is PC Jack Serrovitz, who was with me when you phoned.’
She nods a greeting to Jack, before returning her attention to me. ‘Do you think we could go for a quiet chat?’
I nod eagerly, hoping the next room has some kind of central heating. We move off before she turns and puts an arm out in front of Jack. ‘Sorry, I just need to speak to Emma alone.’
Jack’s anxiety is apparent as his eyes search mine for reassurance.
‘You wait in the car,’ I suggest, ‘or go and grab some food. I’ll phone when I know more.’
He sighs, but returns to the main door where the hipster officer unlocks it and allows him to leave.
DS Yates types in a security code and the door buzzes as we head through to a corridor which has doors leading to rooms on the left and right. I’ve spent enough time in police stations in recent years to know they probably lead to interview suites. We stop at one and she opens the door and shows me in. I’m surprised to find another woman already seated inside.
‘Emma Hunter, this is my DI, Marina Oakley,’ Yates says.
I nod in the woman’s direction, but she makes no effort to stand or offer her hand to shake. When I sit across from her, I can see now her large frame is in stark contrast to the stick-thin Yates.
‘Can I get you anything to drink?’ Yates asks, but I decline, despite my mouth growing drier by the second.
Something is very wrong here, and I now wish I’d insisted Jack accompany me. Each of them has a pad of paper in front of them, and as I see Oakley open hers, the first page is full of questions scrawled in indecipherable handwriting.
‘Before we begin,’ Yates begins, making herself comfortable behind her colleague, ‘I do need to advise you that the following interview will be conducted under caution, and—’
‘Wait, what?’ I stammer. ‘Under caution? What for? I don’t understand what’s going on. You said we were coming in here for a quiet chat.’
Yates and Oakley exchange glances before Yates continues, ‘I will explain what is going on, but we just need to ask you a few questions first, Emma.’
My heart is racing, and my eyes dart to the closed door behind the two of them. ‘Questions? Questions about what?’
‘We’ll come to that,’ she replies firmly.
Jack’s words from the car echo through my mind: this could be another of their traps.
My neck is flushing, and my breaths are short and shallow. ‘Am I under arrest? If so, I deserve to know why.’
‘You’re not under arrest, Emma, but by conducting the interview under caution, it allows us to rely on the content in future. If you want to call a solicitor, you’re more than welcome to.’
I feel physically sick, and wish Jack could hear my silent pleas for help.
Chapter Three
Now
Market Harborough, Leicestershire
I’ve listened to the police caution suspects on interview tapes more times than I can remember, but hearing the words delivered to me in person sends a shiver the length of my spine. I know I’ve done nothing wrong, but when I think of how the ring have battered and bullied to close down our investigation, I’m terrified by the prospect of what’s around the corner that I can’t yet see. It also troubles me that the interview is being recorded, which suggests there will be further use of it in the future.
‘Let’s begin with your relationship with Kylie Shakespeare,’ Yates says, Oakley’s ballpoint poised on the page. ‘How do you know her?’
There is a fog over my mind making it impossible for my sixth sense to predict what’s coming and process what’s just been asked. ‘Um, what? I-I don’t have a relationship with her.’
It isn’t
the best start: stuttering my words and failing to sound authoritative is not going to help. I’ve listened to suspects who’ve later been convicted of crimes nonchalantly refuse to speak, almost singing, ‘No comment’ as they gleefully refuse to cooperate. I need to channel that kind of certainty when I speak, but I feel anything but convinced of my innocence. What if I’ve been set up to take the fall for something, like when Jack was lured to that pub to be set upon by that amateur boxer?
‘She seems to know who you are,’ Yates counters, deliberately adopting a confused expression as if I’ve just told her the world isn’t round.
‘What can I say? There are lots of people who know who I am,’ I respond aiming for coquettish and failing miserably.
‘And why’s that then?’
This is unbearable. Even though I’ve done nothing wrong, I feel as though I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar, and I hate the feeling. Does she really want me to say that as a bestselling writer, my name and backstory are known by the hundreds of thousands who’ve bought and read my work?
‘On account of my books,’ I plump for, hoping it will be enough, but her expression remains haunted.
‘Ah, so Miss Shakespeare is one of your readers then? A fan.’
‘I-I don’t know. I’ve not met her – at least I don’t think I have.’
‘Which is it? You’ve either met her or you haven’t.’
I gently massage my temple as a headache lurks nearby. ‘What I mean is, I’m not aware that I’ve met anyone by that name, but I do meet a lot of people at various book signing events. I’m not saying that this woman has read any of my books, but for all I know it’s possible.’
‘So, to clarify, you do not believe you’ve ever met Kylie Shakespeare before?’
I don’t like her emphasis of believe, as I sense it’s part of the trap she’s planning to spring later, but I can’t see what that looks like.