by Dylan Young
Cooper looked horrified. ‘NO!’ His denial emerged with a sob.
‘No point crying like a kid, Neville,’ Harris said softly.
Tobias stood up. ‘That’s it. I want you to be quiet. This is out and out harassment.’
Harris’s tone was suddenly cold and reasonable, but his eyes were blazing. ‘You want to end it. OK, I think we all know where we stand now.’
Tobias returned the glare. ‘I don’t want you anywhere near my client unless I’m here, DCI Harris. And I’m lodging an official complaint.’
‘Lodge away.’
‘I want to accompany my client to his cell.’
On hearing the word ‘cell’, Cooper flipped. ‘Do I have to stay here? I don’t want to stay here!’
Tobias tried for calm. ‘It’ll be all right, Neville.’
‘No, it won’t. They won’t leave me alone! It’ll be just like last time!’
‘No, it won’t, Neville.’
Cooper pushed back from his chair and stood up. The door opened and two uniformed officers entered. Cooper stared at them and then at Tobias. ‘Yes, it will. It’s happening again. Why is it happening again?’
Harris said, ‘Interview terminated at five forty p.m. Time to go back to your cell, Neville.’
‘I don’t want to. You can’t let them take me.’
‘Neville, it’ll be OK. I promise it’ll be OK.’ Tobias stood and put a calming hand on Cooper’s arm.
Three policemen in the interview room, spoiling for a fight, used to restraining drunks and addicts. But Cooper surprised Anna and disappointed Harris by quietening down once Tobias spoke to him, cupping his hand around the man’s ear. She could see a smug superiority on some of the coppers’ faces; others showed a grudging admiration for this dignified exit. But there was something terrible in that quiet acceptance that shook Anna. An acceptance reflected in Tobias’s eyes. A look that showed how Cooper had learned hard and bitter lessons in prison. He knew that there came a point where you needed to take your lumps, quell the feelings that raged inside, the indignation that burned. She found herself wishing he had yelled and screamed, clawed like a cat against his captors. It would have been an affirmation of the spirit inside. Instead, the institution of the law imposed itself upon a customer of long standing. It was a pitiful thing to behold. When she could drag her eyes away from Cooper’s downcast face, she saw that Tobias’s hand was balled into a fist around a scrap of paper, the knuckles white against the dark desktop.
The solicitor gathered his papers hurriedly.
‘I don’t want you to ask him the time of day without me here, do you understand?’ He leaned in close across the desk, his face inches from Harris’s.
The chief inspector smiled beatifically and said nothing. Anna got up and left the room. She needed air.
* * *
‘He sobbed in his cell for half an hour.’ Holder shook his head. They were sitting in Slack’s small office, the men with their ties loose and jackets off.
‘Can Harris really do that?’ Holder asked. ‘Can he really offer a soft option to Cooper?’
Anna and Slack exchanged cynical glances. It was Slack that decided to answer. ‘There are no soft options for nonces. Cooper knows that. For a large chunk of the time he was inside, he was isolated under Rule 43 for his own protection. When they tried integration, it became very unpleasant.’
‘You mean he was attacked?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Tobias doesn’t want Harris to talk to Cooper without him being present. How likely is it that will actually happen?’
‘Nothing will stand up in court unless it’s recorded and Tobias is present.’
But there is nothing to stop Harris from visiting Cooper in his cell when he gets his food delivered.
She shook her head in disgust. One major criticism of the case against Cooper eighteen years before was the periods of time he’d been detained without proper access to a solicitor. Those days had long gone, thank God, but there were obviously still ways to coerce and browbeat. And, from what she’d seen, to say that Cooper was susceptible to such tactics was an understatement.
Harris’s pursuit of a confession, seemingly ludicrous when it had first been suggested, now seemed all too plausible in the face of the psychological war he was waging. Yet his unsubtle approach seemed fuelled by something far less healthy than pure zealousness. He seemed driven by a resentment that was deep-seated and poisonous. A desire to incriminate Cooper at any cost. A desire to have an answer to the questions from the Rismans, the press, the public. Again.
‘What is Harris trying to prove?’ Anna said.
Slack shrugged. ‘I don’t know, ma’am.’
But that wasn’t true, and Slack knew it.
‘Are they talking to the press?’
Slack nodded. ‘Officially in about an hour.’
‘But it’s been leaked, hasn’t it? There were press at the Rismans’ house today.’
Slack could only shrug.
Anna got up. ‘Tell DCI Harris I’ll catch up.’
What she really, really needed to do was to get home and, more than anything else, take a long, hot shower to rid herself of the dirt that suddenly seemed to be in every pore.
Fifteen
Anna was halfway to Whitmarsh on Tuesday morning, her brain in overdrive and still smarting from Harris’s barbs, when Holder rang.
‘Have you seen the news today, ma’am?’
‘No, Justin. I showered and left without passing “Go”.’
‘Newspaper?’
‘You’re making me nervous. Do I need to see one?’
‘Yes, ma’am. It’s best that you do.’
She stopped at the next services, bought a coffee and checked the news on her phone. There, a grainy and candid image of her face, taken from outside the Risman property, stared back at her. Serious, her eyes defiant and giving nothing away, the accompanying text said it all.
Inspector Anna Gwynne, leading the investigation into Emily’s killer, declined to comment.
The article rehashed the gory details of both Emily’s and Nia’s murders, along with the news of Neville Cooper’s arrest. All with the words that could panic the public once again: The Woodsman.
Anna shook her head, annoyed. She should be focusing on Emily Risman, not on her way to a prison to interview Hector Shaw. The sooner she got this over with the better.
* * *
Shaw was waiting for her in the grubby interview room. He looked the same as a week before. Anna sat, went to switch on the DIR, but Shaw shook his head.
‘I’d prefer this off the record. To start with.’
Anna shrugged and sat back. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Shaw?’
‘No gorilla?’
‘DCI Shipwright is otherwise engaged.’
Shaw smiled and crossed his arms on his chest. ‘Yeah? How’s your other investigation, Anna?’
‘You know I can’t discuss any other investigation. I’m here to talk about Tanya Cromer.’
Shaw nodded. ‘The thing is, I already know what it is you’re caught up in. We get the newspapers, too. Nice photo. A smile wouldn’t have hurt though.’
She waited.
‘Neville Cooper. The Woodsman. Did he, or didn’t he? It’s a real two egg question, that. If he did, the courts get yolk all over their face, if he didn’t your colleagues get it instead. There’ll be a ton of flak either way.’
‘Mr Shaw—’
‘Looking at it from the outside, or from the inside, like I do, there are too many things that don’t add fucking up. I mean, it looks like the police fitted him up for the first murder. But when he’s inside, there’s nothing. Then, when he comes back out, kerching, there’s another fucking murder. Two plus two equals four on that one.’
She tried not to listen, tried to summon up some white noise to play in her head. But the truth was this was exactly how it looked from the outside. Exactly how the newspapers saw it.
‘Unless, of course
, some devious bastard wants Cooper as a double scapegoat. What do you say, Anna?’
‘I’m only here to talk about Tanya—’
‘Oh, we will, I promise. But for now, I want to talk about you, Anna. You and your cold case. A cold case that’s suddenly on fire and burning at eight hundred degrees fucking centigrade. We both know that the easy thing to do would be to roll over and let Cooper rot for another seventeen years. That’s a long time. But why not? No one gave a fuck the last time. People will love you for it. The press will love you for it. Would you like that, Anna?’
Shaw paused. He gave her one of his slow blinks, and smiled. Not the broad, dangerous smile she’d seen in the Connor video, but still feral. She felt horribly exposed all of a sudden under his oily gaze.
‘But you can’t, can you? It’s not in your DN fucking A, is it? I think I can help you, Anna. I’ve had a lot of time to think about the Woodsman. Plus, I may have some… special knowledge.’
Anna felt her breath quicken and fought not to show it. This was more than likely to be nothing but a sick game. Jane Markham had warned her. And yet, damn it, Shaw was bright. Might it be possible that he did know something?
‘Yeah, see, you know it. I like you, Anna. I want us to be friends.’
‘I can’t do that. I can’t be your friend.’
‘Don’t say that. Not this early in our relationship.’
‘Tanya Cromer,’ Anna said.
Shaw let out a snort. ‘We both know that Tanya isn’t going anywhere.’
Something in his voice made her swallow hard. If he noticed, he did not acknowledge it.
‘“The Woodsman”. Pathetic name, but things were different then. Seventeen years ago, things weren’t quite as sophisticated. The newspapers were powerful. Not like now where they’re irrelevant to anyone under thirty-five. But then, they could really sway public opinion.’
‘If you know anything…’ Anna said.
Shaw nodded. ‘That’s the real question, isn’t it? Knowing.’ He blew out air. ‘This case. It has so many angles. So many places you could trip up. But your angle… your angle must be that Cooper isn’t guilty, am I right?’
She didn’t let anything show, but Shaw smiled anyway.
‘So how do you fit the evidence around that? I mean, now we’re into a different kind of algebra altogether. X plus y minus z equals fucked up.’
Shaw kept talking so quickly, she couldn’t shut him up.
She didn’t want to shut him up.
‘Say someone wants Cooper back inside, and I’m not talking about your shit-for-brains colleagues. I’m talking about someone very special. What doesn’t make sense to you, Anna? What is it that doesn’t add up?’
She spoke then, knowing she shouldn’t but unable to stop herself. The same rhetorical question she’d asked Khosa after interviewing Richard Osbourne. The one that had festered in her mind for days. ‘If it isn’t Cooper, why have there been no other killings in the seventeen years he’s been inside?’
Shaw leaned forward, his eyes intense. ‘Exactly,’ he whispered. ‘So, hold that up to the light and look at it. What’s hidden in the glass?’ He paused before adding, ‘What if he doesn’t like killing them?’
Anna frowned. ‘Emily Risman was strangled and stabbed. So was Nia Hopkins.’
Shaw nodded. ‘How many times? Five? Ten?’
Anna didn’t answer.
‘It’s in the paper. Twenty-four, The Times said. Twenty-four’s a frenzy killing. Everyone knows that. He lost it the first time. There was too much baggage. He knew her, she knew him. His only hope of getting away was to kill her.’
‘Cooper knew Emily and Nia.’
‘We’re presuming it wasn’t Cooper, remember? That’s your angle. So, what if before whoever this man is kills Emily, before the red mist comes down, he starts enjoying himself?’
Anna frowned. This was a minefield. But Shaw, damn him, was walking her through a process she’d struggled with mentally and had found impossible to articulate. He was asking her the questions she should be asking herself, pushing her towards establishing a pattern. It was something Shipwright encouraged her to do. Something she was supposed to be good at.
‘Subdues them to semi consciousness. He likes them half-dead,’ Anna said.
‘Exactly. Maybe he likes to take them to the edge before bringing them back for more.’
‘That’s why he chokes them.’ Anna nodded, but then frowned. ‘But why kill Nia?’
Shaw shook his head. ‘She’s a casualty of war.’
‘He killed her so that Cooper would be crucified again.’ Anna saw it then. It was obvious, but such an alien thought, such a despicable thought that she’d baulked at it until now.
Shaw was enjoying himself. ‘Come on, Anna. Follow it through.’
Frowning, she voiced her thoughts. ‘While Cooper’s free, people like me are a threat because we’re looking somewhere else. Once Cooper is back in custody, everything quietens down.’
‘And then maybe our special boy can get back to business.’
Special boy?
‘What business?’ Anna asked.
Shaw sat back and folded his arms again. ‘Some people need to talk about their hobbies, Anna. It’s part of it for them. Bragging rights. Let’s just say that, at one time in my life, I became very familiar with a certain type of individual.’
‘Was this when you were trying to find the people responsible for Abbie’s death?’
Shaw blinked very slowly. Anna felt her pulse quicken. But all Shaw did was lower his chin and look at her. ‘Once, in a chat room full of scum and detritus and the dregs of the world, someone came and went like a ghost. Untraceable, obviously. But he gave details. Details you could check if you really wanted to. He was genuine. I could always tell the genuine ones. Oh, there were a ton of chancers, wankers who got their kicks from reading about things or making crap up. But the real players, they never had to try too hard with their explanations. This one loved the outdoors. He was naive, young, I’d say. Said he liked to squeeze the apple as he made them squirm. I didn’t care for him then and I don’t care for him now, but it stuck in my mind, Anna.’
‘Who? Who is he?’
Shaw shook his head. ‘You’re the detective. Assume this is all a test. A test of our friendship.’
Anna forced herself to breathe slowly. ‘How do I know you’re not making all of this up?’
Another slow blink.
He doesn’t like his integrity being questioned.
‘The one in Cirencester had roses on her dress.’
‘What?’
‘You’re a police officer, Anna. Prove it.’
‘I…’ She caught herself. Remembered Jane Markham’s words and the reason she was there. ‘Tanya Cromer.’
Shaw tilted his head to one side. ‘You were hoping for a confession, am I right?’
Anna fumbled in her bag for some paper and a felt-tipped pen. No lead pencils. No metal-tipped Biro. It had to be felt-tipped. She slid them across. Shaw picked up the pen and took a long, hard sniff. He might have been enjoying the solvents, but something told Anna it was her smell he was sensing. Something she’d left on the casing from her hand. A pheromone only he could smell. Shaw smiled before leaning forward and writing in a long, looping hand. He wrote one sentence, signed it, turned the paper around and slid it back across the desk. The prison guard watched. His expression alert but inscrutable from behind.
Anna stared at the paper. In blue felt-tipped pen Shaw had written: ‘Tanya Cromer. I did not do it.’
‘Lots to think about, Anna. Like the mixed DNA sample you found on Tanya.’
‘If you know the answer, we need justice for that young girl. We need closure for her fa—’
‘It’s a mystery, right? A puzzle for you to work out, just like roses on a dress. I’d like to say take your time, but our boy has had to be patient while Cooper was out of jail. Now that he’s back in, who knows what might happen?’
* * *
<
br /> Anna was shaking badly by the time she got back to the car. She sat and tried to assimilate all that had happened. Took out her notebook and wrote as much as she could remember down. Had Shaw really caught a glimpse of someone online? Someone who liked to squeeze his victims’ throats to the point of unconsciousness? Could someone really be re-incriminating Cooper, killing purely to get Cooper put back inside, and get Anna off his tail for Emily’s murder so he could get back to doing something else? What? What else had he been doing?
Adrenalin coursed through her. The windows were fogged up. She was glad because that meant no one could see her flaming cheeks and wild eyes. Her hands were trembling badly when she gunned the engine. She’d broken Jane Markham’s rule and let Shaw inside. Broken it so badly… But everything Shaw said had resonated with her own thinking so bloody perfectly it scared her. It felt so wrong and yet Shaw had lit the kindling for the conflagration that now burned and crackled inside her. Shipwright would have a fit if he ever found out.
The trembling didn’t stop until she was halfway back to Bristol. By then she knew there was no way of putting out the flames unless she did something about it.
* * *
At Portishead, she called the team in for a 12.30 p.m. briefing. She’d calmed herself down, but still ideas were fizzing inside her and she knew she had to get them out somehow.
Together, they watched a Sky News bulletin from the previous evening. Harris met the press on the steps outside Gloucester police station, eschewing the clinical austerity of the press room. A variety of phones and microphones were arranged in front of him, bristling like missiles on a rocket launcher. Harris’s brow glistened with sweat and the bright glare of spotlights reflected off his corneas, augmented by the odd camera flash. His statement was concise and delivered with grim but triumphant concentration.
‘We can confirm that there has been a significant development in the hunt for the murderer of Nia Hopkins.’
His statement was drowned out by the clamour from the assembled press.