by M K Farrar
“Wait a minute.” He sat up straighter. “I did see someone. Another bloke. He pushed in the front door when I was on my way out.”
Erica frowned. “The front door, as in Naomi’s, or the main one for the building?”
“The main one for the building. I didn’t question it or anything. I mean, I didn’t live there, so I don’t know who should or shouldn’t be coming in. He just kind of gave me a nod and kept going.”
“And what time was this?”
“Late. Must have been about one-thirty. I don’t remember checking the time exactly, but we got back to the flat just before midnight, so yeah, I guess it would have been about half one.”
Shawn leaned forward. “Can you give us a description of this man?”
“About my age, I guess. Brown hair. My sort of height. I think he was wearing jeans, but I didn’t really pay that much attention, plus I’d had a few drinks that night, so my memory is a bit hazy.”
Erica raised her eyebrows and struggled to keep the sarcasm from her tone. “That’s convenient. You’re saying that you just happened to see someone who looks a bit like you going into the same building where the woman you’d just been with was murdered.”
He widened his eyes. “I’m telling the truth. It’s not my fault that’s the way it happened.”
Erica kept her voice level. “Do you understand how this appears, Mr Day? Your DNA is most likely going to be all over the body. Other than her killer, you were the last one to see her alive. And now you’re telling us some other man happened to enter the building at the same time you left.”
“I’m not lying!” Fear brightened his eyes. It was clear the repercussions of that night had dawned on him. “Hang on, don’t you need some kind of motive? I didn’t have any reason to kill her. I barely knew her.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Maybe the strangling was a sexual kink that went too far?”
“What? No, I’m not into things like that.”
Shawn threw in a suggestion. “Or something went wrong during sex and she laughed at you or embarrassed you, and you got angry.”
Tears shimmered in his eyes. “You’re just making stuff up now. Nothing like that happened. We had a good time and I left, that’s all.”
“Did you take her phone with you?”
“Why would I have done that?”
“Because it was missing from her flat when we found the body. Unless she lost it during her night out, we think whoever killed her took it.”
He shook his head. “She didn’t lose it. She had it in the flat when I left. She was checking her social media while we were lying in bed. She’s into all that kind of thing—I mean, she was. She was showing me some of her photos and some of her recent videos she’d already recorded that she was planning to post. She got paid money to do all that. Good money.”
“And she definitely had the phone when you left.”
Robbie looked between them as though he thought eye contact alone could save him. “Definitely. I swear.”
“Would you be willing to give a DNA sample and fingerprints so we can rule you out of the investigation?” Erica asked him.
“I think I should get that solicitor before I do or say anything else.”
“By all means, it’s within your right to do so.” Erica preferred it when they had a solicitor with them. It meant that if things came down to a conviction, any evidence gathered during the interview was less likely to be thrown out of court.
His nostrils flared, and he nodded, glancing down at his hands. “I will. Not that I did anything to her, but I don’t want you to make out like I did.”
“Our job is to find the person who did this, not simply arrest someone who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. We want fingerprints and a DNA sample to rule you out of the investigation, not convict you wrongly.” She caught his eye. “We want to find whoever did this to Naomi, too.”
Chapter Twelve
Eighteen Months Earlier
Life behind bars was a daily grind for Nicholas. He did his best to keep his head down, but he seemed to draw attention from all the wrong people.
His tongue had been sutured with dissolvable stitches after the incident in the workshop, but the chunk he’d taken out of it when he’d bitten it had left him with a slight lisp that only gave the other inmates another reason to pick on him. They never did it where one of the prison officers could see, and it was always subtle, or just enough to make it seem as though he’d fallen or tripped. One of the prison officers themselves wasn’t much better. Officer Bache had also taken a dislike to Nicholas, and while he didn’t take part in the physical violence himself, he was more than happy to turn a blind eye if he walked in on something.
Nicholas doubted there were many out there who’d feel sorry for him, but that didn’t stop him feeling sorry for himself.
A clang of keys on metal drew his attention, and he looked up from his book to see Officer Bache outside his cell.
“Mail for you, Bailey.”
Nicholas sat up straight. He never got any letters. No one in the outside world gave a shit enough about him to want to put actual pen to paper. He was alone in this world, Erica Swift had seen to that when she’d let his brother, Danny, die.
His heart did a strange trip. Would it be her? Would she have written to him? She might have penned a letter filled with hatred towards him because of what he’d done to her husband, or perhaps she’d found God and decided to forgive him and felt the need to let him know that.
Bache waved the letter between the bars. “You going to take it or not? I’m more than happy to use it as toilet paper to wipe my arse on later if you don’t want it.”
Nicholas jumped down and took the letter, and then went back to his bunk. Fish glanced over with bored disinterest, not caring about Nicholas’s post.
Nicholas lay on his back and held the letter up to study the front of the envelope. It had already been opened, of course, the contents studied by prison staff and approved before being handed over to him. They’d want to make sure it wasn’t anyone planning something like an escape or trying to smuggle in drugs.
He didn’t recognise the scrawled handwriting on the envelope—not that he’d expected to—but still he studied each line and curve. He wanted to savour the moment of actually having something interesting and different in his life. Prison was, if nothing else, monotonous. He woke at the same time every day, ate at the same time, working the same number of hours. Each day he was allowed one hour of fresh air. Nothing ever changed, except for the variation in whatever ways his fellow inmates decided to torture him.
This letter, though, that was different. He brought it to his nose and inhaled, imagining he could scent the aftershave or even perfume of whoever had written it. He couldn’t, of course, it just smelled of paper and ink, and a little of the musty odour of the prison, but he enjoyed the sensation. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting the back for anything that might give him a clue as to who it was from, but there was nothing. The postage stamp didn’t give anything away either, and the prison staff had stamped a large ‘approved’ over the top of it.
With care, he opened the envelope and drew out the letter inside and unfolded it. It was handwritten in blue pen. There was no address in the top right-hand corner, and no date either.
Dear Mr Bailey,
You don’t know me, but it seems we share a number of common interests, and I was hoping to strike up an old-fashioned pen pal friendship where we might discuss our shared hobbies. I have many things I like to do outside of work. Sometimes I find city living to be stifling and I take myself out into the countryside, to walk and breathe the fresh air. I’m a fan of nature and wildlife in general. I’ve been a keen birdwatcher in my time, and that’s definitely something I hope to take up more of in the months to come.
I hope to hear from you soon,
M Cimi.
Nicholas stared down at the letter. What was he supposed to make of it? He’d never had any intere
st in wildlife. Living in inner city London his whole life meant he’d rarely seen anything more than a pigeon pecking around on the pavement, or a rat scurrying down a Tube line, or very occasionally, an urban fox scavenging around dustbins late at night. And he was certain he didn’t know a M Cimi. What did the ‘M’ stand for? Michael? Max? Martin? Was it even a man? The letter writer could be a woman. The tone felt male, though he didn’t know why. He racked his brains trying to think of someone he knew with that name, but he drew a blank. He read the letter over once more, making sure he hadn’t missed something. Was it possible that this M Cimi had the wrong prisoner? Perhaps he’d got Nicholas mixed up with someone else and had written the wrong name on the envelope? He had no fucking clue who that person might be, but he couldn’t think of any explanation.
There wasn’t even an address anywhere on the letter, so he didn’t understand how this M Cimi thought he could write back. Was he supposed to already know the address? That thought only solidified the idea that the letter had been written to the wrong person.
Had any of the other prisoners here ever expressed an interest in wildlife? It wasn’t the sort of conversation he’d start—not that he’d be inclined to start any conversation really. Those early days where his fellow inmates had been excited to hear what he had to say were long gone, and now they either rolled their eyes or just turned their backs on him if it looked as though he was trying to engage them in any way.
Even if he had an address to write back to, he wasn’t sure he had anything to say. He’d never been much of a writer and hadn’t exactly paid attention at school. He’d thought the whole thing was a total waste of time, and besides, he’d been more focused on the total shitshow of his home life than he had worried about school. After his mum had died and his brother had buried her in the back garden, he’d pretty much fallen apart. Schoolwork had been the last thing on his mind.
What would he say, even if he was able to find out an address? Would he tell Cimi that he most likely had the wrong person? That would probably be the best thing to do, but Nicholas had enjoyed receiving the letter. If he told him, then Cimi wouldn’t write again, and Nicholas would once more have nothing to look forward to. Besides, he was lonely in here. He could use a friend, even if it was one who thought he was someone else and who wanted to discuss something Nicholas had no interest in.
WEEKS TURNED INTO MONTHS, and Nicholas had all but forgotten about the strange letter he’d received. He chalked it down to a case of mistaken identity. He hadn’t heard if there was another prisoner here with the surname of Bailey, but it was a possibility. There were, after all, almost a thousand prisoners here, and it wasn’t as though his name was unusual. Maybe it had been sent to the wrong prison, and that was what explained the mix-up.
Nicholas discovered that he didn’t really care. He had more important things to worry about, like trying not to get beaten up in the showers, or have his meals knocked onto the floor at every mealtime, so he was forced to live on whatever he could buy at the commissary. He’d never been a particularly bulky man, but now his ribs jutted beneath his skin like a bird cage.
He lay in bed reading. It was one escape that he appreciated now he was in here. In the outside world, he wouldn’t have dreamed of picking up a book, but things were different inside. He enjoyed his visits to the library, scanning the shelves for his next read and swapping the pile of books for a new set. There was a small television in their cell, but Fish got to decide what to watch on that, and Nicholas didn’t dare argue with him. He could have saved up enough money to buy a radio from the commissary, but that would have meant playing it over the top of Fish watching television, and he was never going to do that. When he was reading, he was silent, and silent people were easier to forget about.
One of the officers stopped outside the cell and pushed a letter onto the metal tray. “Post for you, Bailey.”
Nicholas sat up, his heart beating faster. Instantly, his thoughts went to the mysterious letter-writer from months before. It might not be the same person, of course, but no one else had written to him.
He hopped down from the bunk, snatched the letter, and climbed back up again. The handwriting on the front was the same, and he pulled the envelope open and unfolded the letter inside.
Dear Mr Bailey,
I don’t know if you’re like me, but I was never particularly academic at school. That’s not to say I wasn’t clever—I like to believe I’m smarter than the everyday man—but I found the routine of school classes to be a drudge. Education isn’t something that can be taught in the classroom, but instead should come from living. Don’t you agree? Those who truly experience life by throwing themselves into it with all their being, but not allowing rules and expectations and others’ opinions to get in the way are the ones who learn the most. Books are wonderful inventions, and I’d never be without them, but nothing beats getting your hands dirty. Recently, I’ve discovered a love of art. To walk through the respectful silence of a gallery is one thing, but to create that art yourself is something else. Not that I believe my talents to be any good, really—or perhaps they are and I’m being hard on myself—but there is something about the scent of oil paints and solvent in the air that makes me feel alive. It means something to create, to take a blank canvas and transform it into a piece of art that has meaning. I even enjoy scrubbing the paint from my hands afterwards, the way the red paint swirls against the white porcelain of the sink.
Nicholas stopped reading and lifted his head, his heart beating faster. The description of the paint against porcelain reminded him of blood. Had that been Cimi’s intention? Cimi must have known what Nicholas had done—it wasn’t difficult to find out. Unless Cimi had got the wrong prisoner number and was writing to the wrong inmate. But then why was he addressing him by name if he thought he was writing to someone else?
Nicholas bent his head again and continued.
Is art something you like to do, Nicholas? Do you like to create? I think as human beings, it’s natural for us to create something, even if it’s not in the traditional sense. But then, maybe some of us are more prone towards destruction?
Your friend,
M Cimi
Nicholas had never been into art. He’d done the subject at school and had liked it more than maths or science, but that hadn’t been because of any particular love for the subject. His enjoyment had come more from the fact he saw it as the easy option. He wasn’t too bad at it either—could draw a bowl of fruit or sketch a landscape and someone else would have been able to tell what it was. He’d never have claimed to have any particular talent or love for the subject, however, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d bothered to draw something. He liked receiving these letters from the mysterious M Cimi, though, and he didn’t want to give the other man a reason to stop writing to him.
He checked the letter for any sign of a return address he could write to, but there was nothing. Who was Cimi, and why didn’t he give Nicholas a way of writing back to him?
With a sigh, Nicholas sank back into the thin mattress, the letter still held in his hand. He hoped the next letter would bring more information, should there be a next one.
Chapter Thirteen
While they waited for Robert Day’s solicitor, Erica put in a call to SOCO to get his flat searched for evidence. If he was guilty, she hoped they’d find the missing phone, but she had a feeling they weren’t going to find anything. Robert Day had been more than happy to give his permission for them to search the flat, so they didn’t need to get a warrant. Either he was extremely confident he hadn’t brought any evidence from Naomi’s murder with him back to the flat, or he was innocent.
“What do you make of Robbie Day, then?” Erica asked Shawn as they made their way to the coffee machine for a refill.
Shawn punched numbers on the machine. “I’m not sure. He seems genuine enough, and he’s clearly a smart guy. Assuming the semen in the condom matches his, I’d say he’d have to be damned stupid to murder a
woman and then leave a balloon chock full of his DNA in the bin.”
“And he doesn’t seem like a stupid man,” she said.
“No, he doesn’t. To do what he does for a living must take some brain power.”
“He might have murdered Naomi in a moment of passion,” she suggested. “Perhaps they were into choking during sex, and he panicked and fled the scene. He might not have thought about the DNA until later.”
The first of the coffees dropped into the bottom of the machine, and Shawn fished it out. “Or he thought there was no point in trying to hide that he’d been with her, since there were already messages between them saying when and where they were meeting, plus CCTV of them together at the bar. He wouldn’t have been able to deny that they were together.”
Erica took the coffee from him. “But he might have been able to deny being at her flat?”
Shawn turned back to the machine to repeat the process for his own drink. “We already agreed he must be smart to have achieved what he has at his age. He must have known his DNA would be all over that flat.”
“Then there’s the mysterious man he saw. It’s pretty lucky for him that he just happened to see someone entering the building as he was leaving. And that the person just happened to look a bit like he did.”
Shawn took his drink from the machine. “So, if anyone else saw him and described him, he’d be able to say it was the other bloke.”
“Exactly.” Erica shifted the cup into her other hand, the hot liquid burning through the plastic.
Shawn turned to face her. “And that stuff about the phone? He said that she’d been showing him pictures and videos that she’d already had recorded that she’d been planning on posting. As we know, she continued to post even after she was dead, which means she’d either already set it up to post automatically, or else the killer posted those videos. If he was the one to post, might he also have commented on one of those posts?”