by M. A. Hunter
Emma couldn’t remember a specific occasion, but she was pretty sure there had been times when she and Mum had collected Anna from Grandma’s house, so she nodded along again.
‘Did she tell your mum and dad where she was going?’
Emma shook her head.
‘Did she ask you to tell them where she was going?’
Emma shook her head again.
‘So how would you describe her attitude when she left?’
Emma frowned at the question, not quite understanding.
‘I mean, would you say she was happy? Sad? Upset?’
‘She was angry because I wouldn’t let her use my skateboard.’
‘And how did that make you feel?’
Emma hadn’t really thought about it. She’d been glad to get the skateboard to herself, but she’d soon grown bored of the slow judder over the paving slabs. And whilst she resented that everyone was making such a big fuss, she desperately wished her big sister was there to share the experience, and so they could talk about the weird situation. Whatever game Anna was playing, Emma hoped it would soon end, and things would go back to normal.
Chapter Eight
Now
Market Harborough, Leicestershire
Sleep didn’t seem to come until the early hours, and when it did, it was disjointed and filled with anguished thoughts about what the future will hold for Anna as well as myself. If she’s found guilty of Tomlinson’s murder and sentenced to life in prison, it will feel like I’ve lost her all over again.
Jack didn’t seem to suffer in the same way; I don’t think he moved once, and even his snoring wasn’t loud enough for me to blame my restlessness on it. I was already up and showered when he finally woke.
‘I want to go back to the police station,’ I told him. ‘I know what Yates and Oakley will probably say, but I have to try. I can’t give up on the prospect of speaking to my sister after twenty-one years.’
He looked at me for a long time before sitting up, wiping the sleep from his eyes, and leaping from the bed. ‘Okay. Let’s go.’
He looked confused when I didn’t immediately make to follow him out of the room.
‘It’s only seven and the station doesn’t officially open to the public until ten. We have time for you to shower and change first.’ I passed him one of two steaming mugs of tar-like coffee.
At this point he pulled the creased polo shirt to his nose and nodded at my idea. ‘Thanks for the coffee. I can’t remember the last time I woke and a beautiful woman had made me a hot drink.’
I think he meant it to sound playful, but I instantly cringe, and by the way he subsequently tiptoes past me and into the bathroom, I’m guessing he realised just how inappropriate a compliment it was.
Three hours later, and after a fried breakfast at an independent café in the town centre, we pull up outside the police station once again. We won’t be able to stay parked on the yellow line today, so Jack drives around the nearby residential streets until he locates a space, and then we double-back to the station. Still no sign of any press, which surprises me given how big the story was yesterday.
We head in through the reception area. The uniformed officer behind the desk has closely cropped black hair and casts a suspicious look in our direction as we approach.
‘Morning,’ I say, as brightly as my fatigue will allow. ‘We’re here to see Detective Inspector Marina Oakley if possible. My name is Emma Hunter, and this is PC Jack Serrovitz from the Met Police in London.’
I know using Jack’s rank as a method of somehow adding to the importance of our visit isn’t right, but I don’t want to be fobbed off.
The suspicion doesn’t leave her dark-brown eyes. ‘Can I ask what it’s in relation to?’
‘I met with her late last night in relation to the fatal shooting yesterday morning. She took my statement.’
I don’t say any more, as I don’t want Oakley to send her apologies via the phone. She gave me five minutes to ask her anything and my brain failed me. It hasn’t stopped whirring since Jack fell asleep, and now I have a mental list of questions to throw at her.
The woman behind the desk asks us to wait in the reception area while she phones through. The area certainly isn’t any warmer than last night, and I’m grateful I remembered my coat this time. Jack seems to be moving with greater ease this morning, and I haven’t seen him grimacing as much as before, but I don’t know if he’s just keeping it from me because of everything else that’s going on. I’m also worried that he needs to return to London and work in a few days, and I’m going to miss having him around. I know he’ll say I can phone him if I need to speak to him, but I don’t know if that will be enough.
He smiles as he sees me looking at him, and I turn in case he can read my mind. I know there are more important things I should be thinking about, but my mind doesn’t always listen when I try and change it. I have far too much on my plate – Anna’s return, the outline to be sent to Maddie, the official publication of Trafficked – that I don’t have the energy or strength to deal with my feelings for Jack. I’ve been putting off dealing with whether or not I can see a future with him, and I’m still not sure whether it’s worth wasting time even thinking about it. Jack lives in London, where he has work and parental commitments; I can’t leave Weymouth permanently and I’m smart enough to know long-distance relationships are destined to fail from launch. And then there’s Rick, who is really sweet, clearly wants things to develop, and local. But he isn’t Jack, and I don’t want to feel like I’m settling for Rick. I wish I knew how Jack really feels about me, and whether—
‘Miss Hunter, good morning,’ I hear DI Oakley say. Turning to face her, I hadn’t even heard the secured door buzz.
‘Hi, good morning,’ I stammer. ‘I wasn’t sure if you would speak to me again.’
‘I assumed you’d probably call by,’ she replies, smiling, and introducing herself to Jack. ‘I returned from sleep a little before seven, and I was surprised to find you weren’t camped out on the doorstep. Shall we sit?’
We drop down onto the ripped seats, which are comfier than they look.
‘I really don’t have much more I can tell you since last night,’ she begins.
‘I wanted to check how Anna is,’ I interrupt. ‘Is she well? Is she worried? Is she talking yet?’
‘I spoke to the custody sergeant on my way out here, and she says that Anna did sleep during the night, she’s eaten the breakfast she’s been given, and has been doing push-ups and sit-ups since. I don’t believe she has asked for anything specific, and we have yet to re-interview her.’
‘Have you…?’ I begin, taking a moment to get the words clear in my head. ‘Have you told her about me yet? I mean, have you told her I’m her sister?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not yet, and I will remind you that I can’t discuss details about an open investigation. We are treating Anna as we do anyone in our custody, so she’s as well as she can be.’
‘And you still won’t let me speak to her?’
Oakley shakes her head. ‘I don’t believe it is in the best interests of the investigation at this time.’
‘But what if she still refuses to speak to you until she speaks to me?’
She shrugs apologetically. ‘Then we’ll put our questions to her as we would any other suspect in an inquiry and record her responses. If she chooses not to speak and tell us what really happened…’ She shrugs again. ‘That’s her right. We will make a decision about whether we have sufficient evidence to press charges, and see whether the CPS agrees. Your friend here should be able to explain the rest of the process.’
Jack doesn’t need to explain that if they bring charges against Anna, she’ll wind up in court. I can’t let that happen; she’s been through enough already.
‘I want to help her,’ I say bluntly. ‘Please, tell me what I can do to help.’
Oakley looks at me for a long time without responding. Just when I’m about to repeat my question, she stands. �
�Your sister has declined legal representation. If it were me, facing a charge as serious as this, I think I’d rather have someone else on my side, particularly if things progress to a courtroom situation. You could instruct a solicitor on your sister’s behalf. Anna is not obliged to agree to being represented, but the solicitor might be able to talk some sense into her.’
‘Can you recommend anyone?’ I ask, as she turns to leave. ‘Neither of us knows the area very well.’
She considers the two of us again, and must take pity. ‘There’s a firm in the centre of the town called Waltham, Nesbitt, and Watson. They’ve been around for decades, and have a reputation for plucking only the best graduates from Leicester University. They’d be worth a punt.’
I try to thank her, but she’s already back at the door punching in the security code. As far as she’s concerned, she’s given all the help she can. I appreciate her coming down to speak to me again; I’ve met Senior Investigating Officers who wouldn’t be so generous with their time.
I strain a smile in Jack’s direction. ‘What do you think?’
‘Honestly, I think we should take her advice. She’s not wrong that your sister will fare better with proper legal representation. You’ve done all you can here, and I don’t think there’s any way you’re going to get to speak to Anna now, not until she’s bailed or put on remand. Our window of opportunity closed the moment the DNA results came back.’
It’s the answer I was expecting, so I unlock my phone and search for the solicitor’s firm Oakley recommended. They answer on the third ring.
Waltham, Nesbitt, and Watson operate out of one of those brown buildings that sings of its history. The sign hanging outside the door claims the firm was established in 1967, and looking at the grime on the windows, and the peeling brown paint on the fascia, I can believe it. If I didn’t know it was a legal firm, I could easily have mistaken it for an undertaker’s. The glass is translucent but inside hangs a faded net curtain, making it impossible to see inside. It certainly doesn’t project a welcome feeling.
A bell rings on the door as we step through into an unbearably warm office, with more than a dozen doors scattered left and right. A single desk stands at the far side of the room where a grey-haired woman is talking in an indistinct language into the headset she’s wearing. Jack and I stand just inside the door until her call ends and she beckons us forward.
‘I have a meeting with Saira Mistry,’ I say, reading the name I scribbled on the back of my hand.
The grey-haired woman holds up a finger as she accepts a new call through the headset. It isn’t clear whether she’s finished with us, or whether she has more to say once her call has ended, but we don’t get the chance to find out as a door to the left opens. A striking woman steps out and introduces herself as Saira Mistry. Her petite figure is offset by the enormous heels she’s wearing, which means I hang just below her eye line. There’s no doubting she has the beauty to be a model, and judging by Jack’s inability to speak coherently, I’d say he’s noticed too.
She welcomes us into her office, which is much cooler, and promptly closes the door.
‘It’s Emma, right?’ she asks, retaking her seat behind the desk.
‘That’s right,’ I say, ‘and this is my friend Jack.’
‘And how is it I can help you both today?’
I take a deep breath. ‘My sister has been arrested on suspicion of murder, and I need someone who can help her.’
Saira whips out a pen and begins scribbling in the open notebook in front of her. Her desk is otherwise clear, save for an open laptop to one side, and a locked iPad to the other. Allowing my gaze to take in the rest of the room, it gives me a feeling of satisfaction to see just how well ordered the office is. Everything seems to have its own space. The longest wall is lined with tomes of legal books of statutes, the sort of thing I’ve seen in the British Library. On the opposite wall are far more modern-looking books with softer spines, but a perusal of the titles suggests they are all law-related too. There are no family photographs or mementos as far as I can tell.
‘She was arrested here in Market Harborough?’ Saira asks.
‘Yes,’ I confirm. ‘She was the suspect arrested at Anthony Tomlinson’s house yesterday morning.’
The pen pauses on the page and she looks up. At least she knows what I’m talking about.
‘I see.’
‘They won’t let me see her, and so I can only hope that she’s okay. She’s refused legal representation until now, but I can’t sit by and let her face an interrogation alone.’
She scribbles another note in her book. ‘Does the SIO know that you are speaking to me, and that they should hold on any interview?’
I look to Jack. ‘Well, she was the one who suggested I engage with a solicitor, but I don’t know if they plan to wait.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she says offering a tremble-free hand. ‘I’m on first-name terms with most of the detectives in the county, so I’ll phone and make sure they hold off. Before I do that, can I ask you a few questions about your sister?’
I nod grimly, uncertain how much information I’ll be able to give her.
Chapter Nine
Now
Market Harborough, Leicestershire
The Greyhound has that warm and welcoming feel of pubs that know their place in the community, and don’t try to modernise to keep in touch with customers who are only looking for a place to watch the football. There isn’t a television anywhere in the place, as far as I can tell, and the patrons already inside the dark oak-lined walls seem only the better for it. The windows are single-pane, the tables a mixture of barrels and non-flat-pack, and even the barman looks like an extra from a soap opera, his thick grey beard so in keeping with the old-fashioned feeling of the place.
Jack returns to our booth, the pews reminding me of childhood trips to church. He places my pint glass of draught lemonade on the table top between us, the ice jangling in the glass like warning bells. After last night’s fill of wine, I thought it safer to keep my mind focused on the task at hand. Jack clinks his bottle of alcohol-free lager against my glass, and opens the large bag of cheese and onion crisps he’s purchased and offers me one.
‘Best I could do,’ he says, crunching one between his teeth. ‘The barman said the kitchen’s closed because of an ongoing dispute with the chef. The fish and chip shop next door should be open in the next ten minutes, and he’s happy for customers to eat their takeaway in here so long as they buy a drink.’
I take a crisp and put it between my dry lips, but need a swig of lemonade to help wash it down. I check my watch for the tenth time since we arrived, and then check my mobile still has signal.
‘She’ll phone,’ Jack reassures, no malice in his voice. ‘Saira said she’d go straight to the police station and demand to speak to your sister. She’ll phone when she’s done it. You just need to try to relax.’
I raise an eyebrow in his direction. We both know I’m not going to be able to relax.
‘Okay, okay,’ he says raising his hands, palms out, ‘but there’s nothing we can do until she phones, so we need to figure out something to pass the time. Game of I-spy?’
I smile thinly at his attempt to lighten the atmosphere.
‘I just wish I could speak to her,’ I say after a moment. ‘There are so many things I want to know, but it’s more than that. I feel like there’s so much she needs to know. Like our dad, does she know that he’s dead? Or our mum, she should know that the Alzheimer’s has taken full control and she doesn’t have much longer.’
Jack rests one of his hands on mine in a comforting gesture, but I quickly snatch my hand away.
‘I need to know what she’s facing, Jack. I know we discussed it briefly last night in the hotel, but I also know you were holding back for my benefit. When Saira eventually calls, I don’t want any surprises. In your experience, what is the likely outcome of Oakley’s inquiry?’
He opens his mouth to speak, probably to offer
a false reassurance that I have nothing to worry about, but he quickly changes his mind. ‘Okay, I can be brutally honest if that’s what you want, but there are so many variables that I can’t control.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, for starters, I have no idea what kind of evidence they’ve got. Do they have the murder weapon? The neighbours said they heard gunshots, so if Tomlinson was shot, would Anna have had time to stash the murder weapon? I doubt it, and if it wasn’t on her person when the arresting officers entered the property, they would have searched the place until they found it. As far as we know there is still a crime scene team and experts in recovery of forensic evidence crawling all over the place, so I think it’s safe to assume they have the murder weapon.’
He pauses and takes a sip from his bottle. ‘So the next question is, what does the murder weapon tell them? Is it Anna’s gun or was it already at the property when she arrived? If it’s the former that suggests premeditation, which will make a murder charge more palatable for the CPS. She’s got a better chance if the weapon was Tomlinson’s, but this isn’t the US; people owning guns for personal protection – even former police officers – is far less common.
‘Then, assuming they have the weapon, what evidence has been recovered from it? Do the bullets in the weapon match those that caused the fatal shot? And is there evidence that Anna was the one who fired it? I said last night the whole thing could hinge on whether her fingerprints are on the weapon and whether any gunshot residue was recovered from her clothing or person.
‘Oakley will be desperate to demonstrate that Anna was the one who shot Tomlinson, but she needs to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt. No prints and no GSR don’t mean that Anna didn’t fire the gun. Anna would still have to prove what she was doing at Tomlinson’s house at the time of the shooting. And if she’s not prepared to answer questions to that effect, that allows Oakley to draw on why Anna isn’t prepared to defend herself.’