“Yes.”
“You didn't mention Tony at the time.”
“Why am I answering the same questions again? I already told you: I was never asked. Like I said, it was always a fight between me having killed Sebastian, or suicide; no mention of a third party.”
Benson persisted. “But do you now think he might have killed Sebastian?”
Silence. Jess sighed across the steam curling from the coffee mug. Calmly she said, “I was out of the room. Sebastian was alone with a knife at his chest. I hadn't seen Tony for a few days, and I wasn’t expecting him.” She watched Benson from the corner of her eye. He seemed to be thinking hard about what she was saying, or rather what she was omitting.
“Why?”
“He drove buses. Shifts. They didn't always add up to a lot of time together. He lived in his own flat, by himself.”
“Was he working that day?”
“I never knew what shifts he was working. He'd just show up.”
“So he could have shown up that night?”
“Could’ve.” She shrugged, leaving a pause just long enough for Benson to really consider his own question. “If he did, why run away after he killed him, why not stay?”
“Because he'd be a murder suspect.”
“But he wouldn't leave me as the suspect, surely?”
“You know him, Jessica, not us.”
“Doesn't look much like a bus driver now.” Eddie closed the wardrobe doors and stood up. “What’s he do for a living these days? Where’s he staying?”
“He’s a merchant banker. Got a penthouse overlooking the River Aire.”
Eddie was trying hard not to smile, she could tell. He turned away, and she worked her hand under the duvet, slid it down the side of the thin mattress, and took hold of the knife, all the time shielded from view by her crossed legs and the bedside table. No way would she ever hear the sound of metal doors closing again; the sound of sobbing as the lights dimmed.
Jess watched Eddie’s reflection in the mirror on the wardrobe door, and decided that she didn’t much like him – he was a black or white kind of man, no grey, no doubt, no wiggle room. She put the mug down again; the blade was inches away under the duvet now. “Sebastian’s death ruined more than just my life. Even Tony said that.” Her eyes glossed up as tears formed across them. “Me going away. Michael being taken into care.”
“Could Tony have killed Marchant for ruining his life too?”
“He would have told me.”
“And he didn't?”
She clicked her fingers. “Shit, now you come to mention it, I knew there was something I had to tell you.” She glared at Benson. Eddie looked amused by her sarcasm. She shrugged.
Eddie moved into the small kitchen and opened the cutlery drawer.
“Got a warrant for that?”
Eddie closed the drawer again.
“But he could have killed him and said nothing to you?” Benson didn’t take his eyes from hers.
“Tony is a stranger to me now; we're not an item, if that's what you're suggesting. We don't know each other any more. He called around when I got out of jail to see how I was, that's all. Maybe he wanted to carry on where we’d left off.”
“And he's still calling around?”
She nodded.
“I get the feeling you don't even like him.”
“We’ve both changed,” she whispered, staring into the mug again. Benson was putting the story together in his own mind, and allowing Jess to affirm it for him.
Easy does it. “He scares me a little. He was very upset when I didn't seek him out once I'd been released.” She swallowed, watching their reactions.
“And why didn’t you?”
“My only concern was getting back on my feet and trying to form a relationship with my teenage son again. I’m not interested in a relationship with him, or with anyone. And Christ, he’s let himself go.”
“How has he taken the news that you’re not interested in rekindling your old romance?”
“He's not happy about it. I think that’s why he keeps calling round, hoping I've changed my mind.” She studied Benson.
Eddie said, “He’s not exactly pushed the boat out, though, has he?”
“He’s a junkie. He thinks he looks wonderful.”
Benson nodded, eyes focused somewhere beyond the confines of the small bedsit, mind obviously elsewhere too.
Jess coughed. “If there’s nothing else, I’d like to enjoy my cold chicken.”
The chair creaked as Benson stood. “I’ll be sending someone around to take a statement from you about the burglary.”
“What? Why?”
“It won’t take long. It’s only about the burglary here. And you might not know it yet, but I’m doing it for your own protection. Okay?”
“Sounds like a waste of time to me.”
“Get your locks changed,” Eddie said.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Benson started the car but didn’t drive away from outside Jess’s house. “What do you think?”
“She’s a smart cookie. And she was very convincing about Marchant. If I wanted someone to think I had nothing to do with someone’s death, I’d play happy Karma about it too. And she played it well.”
“You think she had something to do with it?”
“I think she knows about it. And I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that she knows Tony’s involved with it.”
Benson cleared his throat. “Shoes?”
“Nike Cortez.”
Benson swallowed. “I have enough to pull her in.”
“Any lawyer would have her back out in twenty minutes. Leave her. You know she didn’t do Marchant, and you’ll never prove conspiracy, even if you can find this Tony geezer. And right now, she’s just flattened any theory of her being at Doc Bolton’s murder by saying someone nicked her jacket. She’s not daft, Tom.”
“What about her knife drawer?”
“Mish-mash of crap in it. Nothing to say the knife in that jacket pocket belonged there.”
“Do you think she killed Bolton?”
Eddie stared forward. “Fifty-fifty.”
“Fat lot of fucking use you are.”
“She’s scared stiff of him – this Tony geezer.”
“I know. She’s worried every time he comes round.”
“She had a knife.”
Benson snapped his head around. “She what?”
“I saw her bring it out from under the mattress. I was watching in the wardrobe mirror.”
“Why the hell didn’t you say something?”
“What? Charge her with not keeping a sharp object in a drawer? She keeps it there for self-defence, you can tell.”
“Oh, you can tell, can you? Have you forgotten that she stabbed and killed her ex? She’s an expert, you idiot.”
“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten that. If you believe the verdict, of course.” Eddie stared at Benson from the corner of his eye.
“You don’t?”
Eddie shrugged. “You’ve read all the crap on that case, not me. But if she was telling the truth back there, then surely it’s a possibility that he did it.”
“And left her to carry the can?”
“I think the murder was more important than the consequences. If Tony killed Sebastian, he didn’t give any thought to what happened next.”
Benson blew exasperation through his lips. “You think having the coat stolen was a bit convenient?”
“Let me put it another way: If Tony killed Doc, then he planted her coat not only to deflect guilt away from himself, but to directly implicate her.”
“And?”
“And what?”
Benson tutted. “You started your sentence with ‘if’. I don’t like ifs.”
“Look, either she killed Doc and inadvertently left her own coat there – very clumsy. Or Tony did it, and deliberately left her coat there for us to find.”
“Did he steal her shoes too? Nike Cortez; you said so yourself.”
“I can. She killed Doc Bolton for his part in sending her to prison. A two-year-old—”
“She didn’t!”
Benson stared at him. He looked forward again, tapping the steering wheel. “Why would Tony kill him?”
Eddie shook his head.
“Come on. You’ve obviously got a fucking theory.”
“You shouldn’t be asking why Tony would kill Doc Bolton; you should be asking why he framed Jessica Ripley.”
“This is beginning to sound like a Disney movie.”
Eddie said, “I don’t know what’s going on inside that relationship, but I can tell you she’s only a couple of degrees away from a breakdown. Hence the constant fear and hence the knife.”
“You could do psychology as a sideline,” Benson smirked. “Make a fortune.”
“Yeah? And you could be a private investigator.”
“You think so?”
Eddie grinned. “You’d never make a penny, but think of the status: Tom Benson, PI.”
“Bastard.”
“I could mistake you for Tom Selleck, easy. Grow a moustache and you could be his twin.”
Benson filled the car with profanities and took off back towards the station; Eddie said, “Where are you going? I don’t work in that shithole any more!”
Benson closed his eyes and cut across the traffic to get onto the M621. “I keep forgetting that you walked out.”
“Pushed, mate. I was pushed.”
“How are you going to get back in?”
“They’ll invite me back before long. Watch this space.”
“How do you work that one out?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Like I said. So full of shit.”
* * *
Eddie got out, grateful to note that Wendy’s car wasn’t parked outside his cottage. He bent and peered back into the car at Benson. “Did the Wicked Witch of the West submit that coat and knife from Doc’s scene?”
Benson shrugged. “I’ve never had to look over CSI’s shoulder before.”
“Yeah, well, you’d better make a start. They’re top priority – pay the premium, get it turned around quick. Twenty-four hours, Tom, don’t fuck about.”
“If it’s hers, it means nothing anyway – she’s just said it was stolen. And we can’t prove who put it there.”
“You think? The answer was right there staring at everyone in that scene.”
Benson looked confused. “How do you mean?”
“Ask the lady in charge of your CSI department. She should know.” Eddie slammed the door and began walking.
The car pulled up alongside, and the window opened.
Benson called out, “Come on, Eddie, tell me.”
Eddie carried on walking, pulled his collar up.
“Eddie! It’s my fucking case. Tell me.”
Eddie turned and blew Benson a kiss as he put the key in the door.
“Bastard!”
Eddie slammed the door.
The first thing that struck him was the silence. It struck him so hard that it stopped him in his tracks on the way to the kettle. This was bliss. It was like the old days when all he had to worry about was himself and a spider called Winston. But all that had stopped about the time MCU had knocked on his door. And it stopped for Winston about five minutes later when someone from Major Crime stepped on him. Good ol’ days.
And now he had Charles living here; and Wendy the Aunt Sally lookalike was here more often than not, too. The house was starting to smell like a prostitute’s handbag. And that got him thinking in a whole new direction, and the thinking stopped at Troy.
Troy had Eddie’s number. Why hadn’t he called to say he’d left Charles’s house, thanks for letting me use the sofa? Or something like that, anything really, just to say he was okay, and he’d locked the door on his way out, and I promise not to attack you any more, that kind of thing.
Eddie took out his phone, checked it for missed calls or text messages, and there were none. He hit dial and waited for the voice to tell him to leave a message. “Ring me, Troy. Let me know you’re okay.”
He put the phone away and reached for the kettle. He was tempted; just a quick coffee before making the most of being alone – relaxing to Floyd with no need for headphones. But he couldn’t, could he?
He sighed, locked the door on his way out and climbed aboard the Discovery.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
As soon as the cops left, Jessica had burst into tears. There had been an inexplicable feeling of dashing towards a death that it was impossible to escape. Like being on a collision course, and finding out someone had removed the steering wheel. It was an hour before she’d surfaced again. And when she had, she felt different, somehow. Although the steering wheel was still missing, she had control of the accelerator pedal. And taking her foot off it allowed her time enough to see if there was still anything left in the world worth fighting for.
It was raining again as she stared. Only this time there was a chill wind as well, and every now and then it would flick rain at her through the open sides of the bus shelter. It made her blink, and then it made her squint. If it wasn’t for her nerves, she would be getting angry by now.
The cause of the nerves strolled into view.
Michael walked along Heath Road alone this time, and Jess’s eyes widened a fraction, her heart stepped up a gear and she jerked as though ready to stand, the annoying rain forgotten. But she turned the heat down, breathed more deeply, and tried to relax.
He was her son, she reasoned. They’d not seen each other for a few years, and hadn’t had a chance to bond yet, that was all. It wasn’t as though they’d grown apart; it was that they’d never had the chance to grow together in the first place. And he would understand that when she pointed it out to him.
How could he not understand?
Who would choose a foster parent over true blood? No one, that’s who.
* * *
Eddie tried the front door, hoping it might be open. It was not, and the longer he stood here the more conspicuous he felt, the wetter he grew, and the angrier he became. He knocked, and despite the noise of traffic behind him, he could hear footsteps coming to the door. If it was Jess who answered, he’d have to come clean, and he’d have to make her understand why he needed access to her bedsit.
He turned around, and watched his blue van on the kerbside, hoping no one would recognise it. He’d taken notice of Benson and the need to find out who Tony was, and decided the best way of doing that would be to find something he’d had hold of. And the only place Eddie knew he’d been was here.
Eddie had called ahead, asked Sid to leave the CID office, sneak back into the CSI office, grab his van keys and bring them to him in the car park. Of course Sid had done it, and of course he’d been full of questions. None of which Eddie had answered.
The door opened and a blond-haired kid of twenty swayed on the top step. “Hey.”
“Is Jess in, do you know?”
The kid stepped aside. “No idea, man. Don’t fucking keep tabs, know what I mean?” He shuffled into his own bedsit halfway along the dusty hallway. Eddie peeked in on his way past, and he could see a black-haired male in there too. He saw his eyes, the way they couldn’t stay still, and a shiver ran up Eddie’s back.
Eddie knocked on Jessica’s door. No reply. He listened, and knocked again. Nothing.
The noise of the traffic died and Eddie snapped on a pair of gloves. He shoved the door. He could see the frame giving way in the middle where the Yale lock bolt sank into it. He pushed his foot in at the bottom of the door, causing some tension, and then he shouldered the top and the damned thing sprang open and Eddie nearly fell inside.
It was quiet. Eerie. Clean.
* * *
Now Jess stood, and her hand clutched the side post of the bus shelter. Cold water ran inside her sleeve. She let traffic pass by and crossed t
he street through a mist of white spray, watching him. As she drew closer, he looked up from his feet, pulled away from his thoughts, squinting into the rain. He noticed her.
His eyes opened, and his pace slowed. His face was pale.
“Michael.” Jess smiled, reaching out to him. “I was just, I was…”
“You’re not supposed to be here.” He stood still as she approached, pulled away from her shaking hand.
She stopped a couple of feet away from her son. He was the same height as her now. How he’d grown big and true. A fine young man indeed. She smiled at him; a genuine smile, full of the pride she felt for him. He might have been brought up by someone else, but she had given him his foundation, and it was that foundation that saw him tall and muscular right now, handsome. She looked him up and down. He wore his school uniform, a dark blue blazer with an embroidered badge stitched onto the left breast. The Latin motto arcing across the top of it said, ‘Scientia et Veritas’, and its English equivalent mirrored it at the bottom: ‘Knowledge and Truth’.
He opened his mouth to speak.
Was it possible to embrace the sound of words? She got ready to snuggle into them, clicking the switch inside that would record his voice in full Dolby surround. The anticipation was crushing her; Jessica held her breath, put living on hold.
“Why don’t you fuck off?” His eyes were cold, his face calm with a strange fury under the skin, ready to break out and throttle her. “If you don’t fuck off right now, I’ll call the police. Okay? Stay the hell away from me.”
Her smile cracked and then shattered like a broken window. There was no light inside her. She was a husk.
“I told you that I don’t want nothing to do with you. Why can’t you get that, eh?”
“I only want you to know that I love you, Michael. I want you to know that we can be a happy family again. Just you and me.” She smiled at him again, and was about to reach out and touch his arm when he slapped her hard across the face.
The queue of people at the bus shelter gasped. When she turned to look at them, one or two of the women had their hands at their mouths; one old man was getting to his feet. She smiled at them, palmed away their concerns, and looked back at Michael as a thin trail of blood ran across the crease in her chin and then dissolved in the rain.
The Death of Jessica Ripley Page 22