by Louise Voss
She forced herself to her feet, praying that Jade and Kai hadn’t seen her, and walked briskly away. She needed to be far away. To be anywhere but here.
Chapter 23
Day 7 – Patrick
Patrick cracked his knuckles and checked his reflection in the mirror, making sure he didn’t have anything caught in his teeth and that his hair wasn’t sticking up. He knew that Mervyn Hammond was the kind of person who placed high importance on image and Patrick needed Hammond to take him seriously, even if the PR man had a faintly ridiculous air about him – an older man with dyed black hair and a smooth Botoxed face, a permatan and bling on his wrist in the form of a diamond-studded Rolex. As Carmella had pointed out, Hammond probably wore control pants to keep his stomach sucked in. But despite all these ludicrous foibles, Hammond had power, friends in the press and other high places, and the means to afford teams of expensive lawyers. Patrick needed to tread carefully with him.
He cracked his knuckles again, gave his reflection a final once-over, and left the Gents. Careful or not, he was looking forward to this.
Mervyn Hammond was waiting in interview room one, Carmella sitting opposite him. Hammond had brought his own large coffee from Starbucks, along with a bag of mixed nuts, which sat open on the table. When Patrick had spoken to Hammond on the phone he had explained that the PR man was not under suspicion of the murder of Rose or Jessica, but that information had come to light that they needed to ask him about. Patrick had expected Hammond to protest, to come in flanked by an entourage of lawyers, but he had been surprisingly willing and had come alone, driving his own limited-edition F-type Jag Coupé, at which several cops had gone into the car park to gawp. Maybe, Patrick thought, Hammond found this kind of thing exciting, interesting.
‘I’m diabetic,’ Hammond explained, catching Patrick eyeing the bag of nuts. ‘I need to snack regularly or my blood sugar goes . . .’ He pointed his thumb downwards like a Roman emperor ordering an execution. ‘That is all right, I assume, Detective Lennon?’ He chuckled. ‘I met your namesake a few times, you know. Up himself, he was. Paul was always the talented one . . . though they both shared the same dodgy taste in women.’
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ Patrick said, referring to the nuts. He took the seat opposite Hammond, who was wearing a suit that was slightly too tight, his fake tan glowing orange in the badly lit interview room where the body odour of the youth who’d been questioned here last still lingered. ‘I should point out that you are here voluntarily, that you are not under caution and that you can leave at any time.’
‘Well, that’s a relief. I wouldn’t want to be locked up. Unless it was a women’s prison.’ He winked at Carmella. ‘Enjoy the book signing, Detective?’
Patrick was eager to get started. ‘Thank you for coming to talk to us, Mr Hammond.’
‘Call me Mervyn.’
‘Mr Hammond, we want to ask you some questions about one of your clients. Like I said on the phone, some information has come to light that is connected to a case we’re working on, and we are hoping to get some information from you to help clear it up.’
‘It’s not Bruce, is it? I warned him about those small boys.’ He guffawed and said, ‘I’m only kidding. It’s obviously about OnTarget and the murders of those two teenagers. It’s all over the papers this morning. Both massive OnT fans; the boys sending their condolences to the families; planning a minute’s silence at tonight’s gig. That was my idea, by the way. Though the boys really do care, you know. They love their fans.’
Patrick studied Hammond’s face, trying to work out if he was taking the piss. Before he could ask the next question, Hammond scooped up the bag of snacks and leaned across the table towards Carmella.
‘Nut?’
‘No thank you,’ she said coolly.
His eyes flicked up and down her upper body. ‘Yeah, you don’t look like the type of woman who likes nuts.’ He turned his attention to Patrick. ‘Ever thought about a TV career, Detective? I reckon you’d do well with those rugged, alternative looks. Plus you’ve got a good backstory – wife trying to kill your nipper. You could probably get a book deal. The cop who arrested his own wife. The Mirror would serialise that, no question.’
Patrick blinked, then took a deep breath. Of course, it would be easy for Hammond to find that out – it had been in the papers at the time, although the detail about Patrick arresting Gill himself had been omitted. He was disconcerted by the fact that Hammond had made the effort to research him, though. But he couldn’t let that show.
‘Mr Hammond, the allegations we’ve heard concern Shawn Barrett.’
Hammond’s eyebrows rose, his forehead remaining immaculately smooth. ‘Allegations? A minute ago, you said “information”.’ He popped a brazil nut into his mouth, displaying his brilliant white teeth.
Patrick cursed himself, but it didn’t really matter. The allegations were going to come up anyway.
‘Information has come to light that, while on tour in Ireland, Shawn Barrett assaulted a girl at his hotel. According to our source, he tied this girl up and beat her.’
Hammond stayed immobile and silent for a moment. Patrick could almost hear his brain ticking. According to Wikipedia (You’re not the only one who can do research, mate, Patrick thought) Mervyn Hammond had an IQ of 160. Not that Patrick placed much faith in IQ scores. Some of the people he knew with high IQ scores had common sense scores of zero.
‘Who’s this source?’ Hammond asked, his voice flat.
‘We can’t reveal that.’
Hammond barked a laugh. ‘Ever thought about working in PR, Detective? Or journalism? This is the first I’ve ever heard about such an allegation, and I can tell you that Shawn Barrett is a sweet, normal lad who has no interest in S&M or tying little girls up.’
‘Who said she was a little girl?’ Carmella asked.
‘Huh?’
‘We didn’t mention anything about her being underage.’
Hammond snorted. ‘Well, you said girl instead of woman. You police are trained to be politically correct now, aren’t you? You probably have to say person of a female persuasion in public, don’t you? I was simply extrapolating from the vocab you used.’
Patrick resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ‘We want the name and contact details of this young woman – and yes, she was underage.’
‘Did he have sex with her?’
‘What?’
‘Well, you talk about her being underage. I assume you mean the age of consent, though I don’t even know what it is in Ireland.’
Patrick had checked – it was seventeen.
‘Listen, Detective, Shawn Barrett and the other members of OnTarget have persons of a female persuasion literally jumping on them and begging them to fuck them, if you’ll excuse my Anglo-Saxon. Maybe one or two of these chicks asked Shawn to tie them up after showing him a dodgy birth certificate. I know for a fact that Shawn is not a psychopathic rapist who gets his kicks from attacking his fans. He’s a normal red-blooded bloke who is taking advantage of the goodies being served up to him on a plate.’
He sat back and folded his arms.
‘How do you know “for a fact” he’s not a psychopath?’ Carmella asked.
Hammond looked at her. ‘Because the management company had them all tested.’
‘Tested?’
‘Yes. The whole band underwent extensive psychometric testing and assessment by a psychologist before being allowed through to the final stages of Face the Music.’ That was the talent show on which the band had been put together. ‘They are all normal, healthy, young heterosexual men with conventional tastes in the bedroom. They are ambitious but lack aggression. In other words, they failed the psychopath test with flying colours.’
Patrick sat up straight. This interview was threatening to skid out of control. ‘Mr Hammond, regardless of that, we need to take this information seriously.
I want to talk to this young woman.’
‘And what makes you think I can help you?’
‘Because our source told us that you helped cover it up.’
Hammond stood, snatching up his half-empty packet of nuts. ‘I’m exercising my right to leave of my own free will.’
‘Please sit down, Mr Hammond.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because I’m sure you don’t want anyone to know that you allegedly covered this up. It won’t help Shawn Barrett’s reputation, and it certainly won’t help yours.’
Hammond dropped into his seat, his lip curling. ‘No-one in the press will print anything negative about me.’
‘Who said anything about the press? There’s this thing now called the Internet. You might have heard of it.’
Hammond’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. ‘So . . . you’re threatening me?’
‘We are merely asking for your cooperation.’
Hammond took several deep breaths, then tipped a handful of nuts into his palm, inserting them into his mouth one by one and chewing thoughtfully. ‘You think Shawn Barrett’s a murderer.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Come on, Detective. If you want me to be straight with you, I need to ask for some quid pro quo here. Two days ago you were at Gideon Records’ office, asking about OnTarget in relation to those two dead girls. And now you’re asking me about this. It isn’t a coincidence. You think that because Shawn allegedly engaged in some light bondage on tour it makes him a killer.’ He shook his head. ‘So unimaginative, you plods.’
Patrick clenched his fists.
‘OK, so maybe Shawn did get a little carried away. But he didn’t know that girl was underage, and he didn’t do anything she didn’t want to do. It was all consensual.’
‘He hurt her, Mr Hammond.’
‘That’s what S&M is all about, isn’t it? Pleasure and pain. Except this girl says yes, gives her consent, and then when it actually hurts she’s all boo hoo hoo, I want my mummy, you hurt me, you brute.’
Patrick sighed. ‘I don’t want to get into a big debate about this. But I need the contact details of this young woman.’
‘You’re wasting your time. Detective Lennon, you’re going down the wrong avenue, I assure you. If you want to catch whoever murdered those OnTarget fans, you should stop messing about pursuing Shawn Barrett. The person who murdered those girls has to be a psychopath – and, like I said, Shawn Barrett can’t be one of those.’
‘Just give us the details.’
‘Or you’ll leak?’
Patrick didn’t respond. He reached across the desk, took one of Hammond’s nuts from the bag and put it in his mouth, maintaining eye contact throughout.
Hammond stood up. ‘I will need to look up the details at my office and get back to you. I guarantee you won’t find anything worthwhile.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘I’ll send the details over later.’ He gave Patrick a final sneer. ‘If this does leak, if I find my name on a website related to this story, you might just regret it. Your wife is back home now, isn’t she? That would make an interesting story. Baby-Battering Wife on the Loose . . .’ He wiggled his fingers into speech marks.
Patrick leapt to his feet and grabbed hold of the front of Hammond’s jacket. ‘If one word is published about my wife . . .’
Hammond pulled away, dusting himself off.
‘Then we have an understanding,’ he said. ‘Nothing appears about me, nothing appears about your wife.’ He stood before the door. ‘I’ll send that information over later.’
Chapter 24
Day 8 – Carmella
As the plane climbed above the bank of thick cloud, the seatbelt sign light went out with a ping, and an answering echo of unclicking buckles rattled around the cabin. Carmella switched on her iPad and swiped to the Notes section to double-check where she’d be going once she landed. The witness was called Roisin McGreevy and she lived in the roughest part of Tallaght, an already-rough area in South Dublin that used to be known as Knackeragua among Carmella and her school friends. Land of ‘knacker-wash’ denim – their name for stone-washed – blond mullets and petty crime. Carmella hadn’t been there for years, but by all accounts it was still fairly grim.
The flight was bumpy, as it so often was across the Irish Sea, but they landed without too much drama, and Carmella made good time through customs. She was striding out of arrivals towards the bus stop twenty minutes ahead of her planned ETA, taking a bus into the centre of town, and then another one out to Tallaght, arriving at her destination by half past eleven.
Roisin McGreevy was just sixteen now. She’d been fourteen when the ‘incident’ with Shawn Barrett occurred, according to Mervyn Hammond’s reluctant intel. Since it was before noon, the girl would likely still be in bed – if she was anything like Carmella herself had been as a teenager – assuming she didn’t have a Saturday job. Carmella hadn’t seen a photo of her but realised she was imagining her as a hard-faced skanger with piercings and dyed hair; the sort of girl who would jump into bed with a pop star without a second’s hesitation for the glory of it, and who probably thought all her Christmases had come at once when said pop star was as good-looking and famous as Shawn Barrett . . .
When Carmella walked into the small cul-de-sac, situated in the roaring shadow of a flyover, she thought her fears about Roisin would probably be realised. Cars on bricks decorated several of the driveways; others exposed decaying crazy paving and rusty pushchair skeletons. Carmella adjusted the skirt waistband of her navy suit, feeling self-conscious and over-dressed, as several grubby kids playing on scooters and skateboards in the circle of road at the end of the cul-de-sac gawped at her. One pointed and laughed.
‘Lookit the mad hair on yer one!’ This set them all off, roaring and jeering. Carmella felt affronted. Her hair was tied up! If they thought her ponytail was ‘mad’, they should see it when it was loose and brushed out.
None of the houses seemed to have numbers on them.
‘You,’ she said, pointing at one of the kids. ‘Where’s number twenty-one?’
He gaped at her as though she’d asked him for a snog. One of his mates replied by jerking his thumb towards the neatest house in the street. It had the only square of lawn in sight, a lawn that looked as though someone had mowed it recently.
When she rang the bell, a short, stocky woman answered immediately. The woman wasn’t much older than herself, but she had the sort of perm Carmella hadn’t seen for years, at least not on anybody under the age of eighty – regimented rolls of tight, short curls all facing the same direction.
‘Good morning,’ Carmella said, just about managing not to greet her with the habitual ‘howya’. ‘Mrs McGreevy?’
The woman nodded, frowning. She was wearing some kind of nylon housecoat that, with the perm, made Carmella wonder if she’d fallen into some kind of seventies time slip black hole.
‘My name is’ – she dropped her voice so that the kids couldn’t hear. They had all crowded closer, rigid with curiosity, and she didn’t want to get out her police ID unless she had to – ‘Detective Sergeant Masiello, from the London Metropolitan Police. I’m after speaking to your daughter, Roisin – if you’re her mother?’ She couldn’t help noticing how much more Irish she sounded when she came home.
The woman stared at her, eyes wide with alarm, her hand frozen on the door.
‘Please don’t worry, nothing’s happened to her, she’s not in any trouble. It’s concerning another investigation we’re in the middle of over in London.’
‘I think you must have the wrong girl,’ Mrs McGreevy said cagily. ‘Roisin’s never been to London.’
‘May I come in?’
Mrs McGreevy stepped aside to admit her but only, Carmella thought, to get her away from the prying eyes of the neighbourhood lads.
> The interior of the house was as neat as the front garden, but utterly devoid of any style or flair. It was as seventies as Mrs McGreevy herself, although clearly not in any sort of retro or ironic way. Carmella half-expected to see a man with Brylcreemed hair and peg-top trousers smoking a pipe in an armchair in the front room. She blinked at the swirly carpets and flock wallpaper, and followed Mrs McGreevy through to the back of the house, to a slightly less eye-watering breakfast room.
‘Sit down, now. I’m sure you’ve had a wasted journey, but can I get you a coffee at least before you go, Miss, er, I’m sorry, what do I call you?’
‘Carmella is fine.’ She smiled at the woman, who looked sick with worry. ‘Thanks, I’d love a coffee, white, no sugar, please.’ She sat down at the kitchen table.
‘Are you sure Roisin’s not in trouble?’ Mrs McGreevy blurted, busying herself with the kettle.
‘No. It’s in connection with an incident a couple of years back.’ Carmella hoped the woman already knew about it. It would be a hell of a shock to discover your fourteen-year-old had been engaged in non-consensual S&M with one of the planet’s biggest pop stars.
‘What’s going on?’ came a small high voice from the doorway. Carmella turned, expecting from the voice’s pitch to see a young child, but was surprised to find a teenage girl in a blue uniform and baseball cap bearing an embroidered logo of Supermac’s burger bar resting on top of brown curls.
‘Who are you? Mam, who is this?’
‘Roisin, love, don’t be worrying. She’s a police officer from London. She wants to ask you a few questions about something. I can’t imagine what.’
Roisin couldn’t have been further away from Carmella’s mental image of her. She looked about twelve, and so wholesome that it was almost impossible to imagine her naked, indulging in all sorts with Barrett. The only hint that she might not always have looked this innocent were the empty pinpricks of holes in her ears, four or five in each.
‘Oh God, really? Why?’ Roisin’s eyes immediately filled with tears, making her look even younger.