Her Last Breath: The new crime thriller from the international bestseller (Sullivan and Mullins)

by Alison Belsham

  ‘That bloody reporter. I shook hands with him on what was on and off the record and he’s gone and printed the whole fucking lot.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  Rory scanned the front-page article and sidebars about the deaths of Tash Brady and Sally Ann Granger, and he could see why the boss was enraged – Tom Fitz had included every damned detail. And furthermore, he’d added two plus two to make five, with a range of statements about the crime and the killer that were as much guesswork as anything else.

  ‘There’s worse. Page three.’ Francis turned away from him.

  When Rory opened the paper, he saw the true cause of Francis’s anger. And his now very apparent embarrassment. As a sidebar to a separate article on Sam Kirby’s trial, a series of grainy pictures with time stamps showed a man, unmistakeably Francis Sullivan, arriving at a small terraced house late at night, then leaving the following morning. Rory didn’t need to read the caption identifying the property – it was Marni Mullins’s house on Great College Street. Tom Fitz had linked Sam Kirby’s taunts in the court to what he claimed was evidence of a relationship between Sullivan and Mullins. It ripped the prosecution’s case to shreds.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Rory under his breath.

  The boss crumpled like a football that had had the air kicked out of it. Hardly surprising, given the shitstorm looming on the horizon.

  ‘Where the hell did he get those pictures?’ said Francis.

  Rory had seen them before. He knew exactly where they came from – on Bradshaw’s instructions, he’d had Marni Mullins’s house under surveillance for several weeks during the Tattoo Thief investigation. But the question was, who’d passed the images on to Tom Fitz?

  ‘Come on, Rory,’ said Francis through gritted teeth. ‘We need to go and have word with the little shit.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in court?’ It was the last day of Sam Kirby’s trial.

  ‘I’ve got time – I don’t need to be there for the summing-up. It’s just the verdict that counts.’

  When Rory put on the blues and twos to cut through Brighton, Francis didn’t complain about misusing them like he usually did – which in itself was a measure of just how shaken up he was. It was eight miles along the front to Lancing, where the Argus had its offices. The Friday morning school run was in full swing, and the not-yet-caffeinated mothers seemed oblivious to the flashing lights and siren. Rory swore softly under his breath as a gaggle of women with pushchairs dawdled on a pedestrian crossing, making him slam on the brakes.

  ‘He made a veiled threat, but I thought he was bluffing,’ said Francis. ‘And the irony of it is, nothing happened between me and Marni Mullins that night.’

  ‘The pictures tell a different story,’ said Rory. This was interesting.

  There was a moment’s awkward silence, then the boss came clean.

  ‘I got drunk, that was all.’

  Rory bit down hard on his bottom lip. It would have been too cruel to laugh out loud, but he couldn’t think of anything funnier than his super-square boss getting drunk with the tattoo artist.

  ‘Listen, you can’t trust the press as far as you can throw ‘em,’ said Rory. ‘Why the hell did you tell him all that? Because of a threat he didn’t put into words?’

  Francis exhaled loudly in frustration. ‘I was just confirming things he knew already. I thought if he knew what was true, he wouldn’t publish a pack of lies. I asked him not to go public with certain aspects of the case. But he said he’d only wait so long. He wanted an exclusive and I had nothing to give him – so he’s done this.’

  ‘More to the point, who provided him with those images?’

  ‘Who bloody took them, Rory? It’s clear they’re surveillance shots – from our department, at that.’

  Time to change the subject, fast.

  ‘We’re going to have to start manipulating who knows what and then see what Fitz comes up with,’ said Rory.

  ‘That won’t be easy. And we shouldn’t have to waste time playing games like this.’

  Rory indicated, turned off the main road and pulled up outside the building on the corner. A small newsagents and convenience store took up the ground floor. The offices of the Argus were located above, on the first floor. There was a door to the right of the shop and Francis was already banging on it with his fist by the time Rory had the car locked. The index finger of his other hand was pressing continuously on a buzzer. The intercom remained silent and no one came to the door.

  Rory stepped back to the edge of the pavement and looked up at the first-floor windows. No signs of life.

  ‘Damn!’ said Francis, as he gave up hammering. ‘Where does the bastard drink?’

  Rory checked his watch. ‘It’s only eleven.’

  ‘Yes, but Tom Fitz is an investigative journalist, Rory, and where does he do most of his investigating? In the pub.’

  At that moment, the door of the newspaper office opened. Rory whipped round to see a woman standing in the doorway, a look of shock registering on her face as Francis barged forward and then pushed his foot into the narrowing gap of the rapidly closing door.

  ‘Police. Open up.’

  He pulled out his warrant card and thrust it under the woman’s nose.

  ‘I . . .’ She didn’t know what to say and resignedly stepped back to allow Francis to enter.

  They took the stairs two at a time and burst into the newsroom. It was hardly a hive of activity – just two middle-aged men working on PCs, with the smell of burnt coffee hanging in the air. Neither of the men was Tom Fitz.

  Francis strode around the office, looking at the empty desks as if he could somehow materialise the reporter into being at one of them.

  ‘Police,’ said Rory by way of explanation as the two men stopped work and gave them questioning glances. ‘We’re looking for Tom Fitz.’

  The woman who’d opened the door had followed them up the stairs. ‘He’s not here,’ she said.

  ‘I can see that, love,’ said Rory. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I told him,’ said one of the men.

  ‘Told him what?’ said Francis. ‘Are either of you the editor?’

  The other man, who was the older of the two, gave a cynical laugh. ‘Us? You kidding?’

  ‘Fitz?’ said Rory, getting back to the point of their visit.

  ‘Don’t know,’ said the second man and the other one shook his head.

  ‘Are you expecting him?’ Francis was getting more and more agitated.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But that’s his jacket, isn’t it?’ said Rory, pointing to a garment hanging on the back of an empty chair.

  Both men gave non-committal answers. Then Rory heard a footfall on the stairs. All eyes turned towards the door of the newsroom as Tom Fitz walked in with a McDonalds paper sack in one hand and a supersize coffee cup in the other.

  As Rory watched, things seemed to go into slow motion. Tom Fitz’s eyebrows shot up as he saw the two policemen, while Francis threw his now-very-crumpled copy of the Argus at the reporter’s feet.

  ‘You shit, you utter shit!’ said Francis.

  ‘Whoa,’ said Fitz, raising his full hands in front of himself in an attempt to placate.

  ‘You’ve probably blown both cases out of the water. How dare you print things you’ve been told off the record. I want a retraction in tomorrow’s paper. All of that stuff that I told you.’

  ‘No way,’ said Tom Fitz. ‘Not a chance. If I find something out independently of you telling me, then I get to print it, whether you say it’s off the record or not.’

  ‘I asked you not to print those things for the sake of the investigation.’

  Tom Fitz shrugged and carefully placed his food on the nearest empty desk.

  ‘Your career means more to you than us catching a killer?’ Rory intervened.

 
‘You’ve got two men in custody on this,’ said Tom. ‘Surely you believe you’ve got your killer?’

  Francis’s jaw tightened. ‘And you’ve probably wrecked Kirby’s trial.’

  ‘You have. You were the one shagging your star witness.’

  ‘Those pictures mean nothing.’

  ‘I think most people who see them will think otherwise.’

  ‘With your crude insinuations, they will.’

  ‘You should have thought of that before you screwed Marni Mullins.’

  Rory watched Francis snap. He lunged at the reporter, pulling his right arm back and clenching his fist. The punch, when it came, was almighty. Tom Fitz’s jaw cracked as his head snapped back. He staggered and hit the corner of a desk with the back of his thigh, then, off balance, fell against the adjacent chair. It skidded out from underneath him and he sprawled ungraciously onto the floor with a loud ‘Oomph!’

  But Francis hadn’t finished with him. After rubbing his bruised knuckles against his thigh, he bore down on Fitz and bent over him, grabbing a handful of his lapels on each side.

  ‘I should fucking arrest you for obstruction.’

  Fitz worked his jaw, already sporting a scarlet swelling that would no doubt develop into a spectacular bruise.

  ‘No chance,’ he said, his voice thickened and lisping. ‘I’ll lodge a formal complaint about this. I got witnesses.’ Blood from a split lip dribbled down his chin.

  Francis let go of one side of his jacket and balled a fist.

  ‘I’ll happily do it again, in case they didn’t see it the first time.’

  This was professional suicide.

  ‘Come on, boss. Leave it now – you’ve made your point.’

  ‘Shut it, Rory!’

  Rory had to do something. He waded into the fray and pulled Francis away by the arm. Francis glared at him and twisted out of his grasp.

  ‘Boss?’

  But Francis straightened up and brushed down his suit. Tom Fitz looked up, not bothering to get up and present himself as a target all over again.

  Francis sneered down at him. ‘That was your last chance for co-operation with us,’ he said. ‘I’ll find your sources and I’ll close them down. In future, you’ll get nothing. No scoops, no priority information because you’re the local man. Nothing. And if I was your editor, I’d seriously think about putting someone else on the crime desk. Because you’re finished in this town.’

  ‘You don’t scare me, Sullivan,’ said Fitz, still rubbing his jaw.

  To Rory, it looked as if Francis was about to head in for a second go, so this time he got a firmer grasp on the boss’s arm and propelled him down the stairs.

  War had been declared in no uncertain terms.

  38

  Friday, 25 August 2017

  Francis

  Feeling more shaken by his encounter with Tom Fitz than he’d care to admit, Francis slunk into the back of the court just in time to hear the defence barrister summing up. As he sat and listened to the arguments concerning Sam Kirby’s culpability, he rubbed his bloody knuckles. How could he have done something so stupid as punch Tom Fitz? And for all his and Rory’s bravado, he was certain there would be consequences he didn’t care to think about.

  He tried to concentrate on what was going on around him in the court.

  Certainly, the barrister argued, no one questioned that she was guilty of the murders of Giselle Connelly, Evan Armstrong and Gem Walsh, along with the attempted murders of Marni Mullins and Dan Carter. But an army of psychiatrists and mental health specialists had testified as to her state of mind when she committed the acts, all claiming mental illness.

  As if the specialists could have any bloody idea of her state of mind, Francis thought, loosening his tie in a vain response to the stifling heat of the courtroom.

  Francis could only see the back of the defence barrister from where he sat. The silk continued talking for about twenty minutes – too long – but finally he wound up and turned around to come back to his table. Then Francis saw it. The man, who’d been perfectly fine the day before, was now sporting a split lip. His mouth was swelling and bleeding, and the white jabot around his neck was spattered with blood. It must have happened just before he came into court and Francis could guess who was responsible. He looked at Kirby and noticed she was sucking the knuckles of her right hand. When she saw Francis looking at her, she dropped her hand to her lap and grinned at him. She was very pleased with herself.

  What the hell had happened?

  Francis’s empty stomach curdled. Was the barrister’s battered mouth the result of an altercation over strategy with his client, or was it a clever ploy, cynically administered to insinuate that his client was out of control? It made him even more nervous of the outcome. What if the jury made the wrong decision? How would that reflect on him? On his team? They had another killer on the loose and the last thing they needed was for this to undermine their authority. The town was twitchy, women were scared. All Francis could do was hope that Don Martin had made a better job of his statement than the defence barrister.

  The judge began his final summation, addressing the jury about how they would need to reach a unanimous verdict. Some of them looked nervous, some bored. Probably most of them would be hugely relieved when the case was over and they could get back to their lives. They had no idea how much was riding on the decision they were about to take.

  When the judge finished, the jury filed out of the courtroom to be sequestered in the jury room until they made their final decision.

  The waiting began.

  Francis couldn’t second guess what the jury were thinking. There was a solid belief among his police colleagues that a speedy verdict meant a guilty verdict. And there was an equally solid belief that the longer the jury deliberated, the more likely the defendant was to be found guilty. Both seemed wishful thinking to Francis. No two cases were the same, and neither were any two juries.

  Lunchtime came and went but Francis found himself unable to eat anything. A black coffee tasted bitter and the air in the courthouse was stale and warm. He longed to stretch his legs around the block but didn’t dare in case the jury returned. He couldn’t bear the thought of missing the verdict. He made do with smoking a cigarette out on the front steps. Then he tried answering emails, but his concentration constantly wandered back to the things he should have said on the stand but hadn’t, the things he did say but shouldn’t have, and the questions the prosecution should have asked him. Could it have made a difference? He was torturing himself but he didn’t know how to stop.

  Finally, when it was almost time for the judge to dismiss the jury to a hotel for the night, Francis caught sight of the clerk of the court in the corridor. He gave Francis a surreptitious nod, letting him know that the jury had finally reached their verdict. The buzz spread through the building and people hurried back into the courtroom and took their places. Tom Fitz was sitting, as always, at the front of the public gallery. Francis ignored him.

  Don Martin came in and gave him a reassuring smile, while George Elphick looked pale and worried as he whispered to the defence barrister. Sam Kirby was led into the dock. She scowled as she looked around the room. Her moment at centre stage was coming to an end, and she had no control over what would happen next. From her perspective, neither option was particularly appealing – both involved a loss of freedom – but psychiatric hospital would be more comfortable, and she would no doubt relish the chance to parade her warped psyche in front of a rotation of doctors and psychiatrists.

  The judge took his seat with a sombre expression and then spent some minutes consulting with the clerk of the court, a short man who had to stand on tiptoe for his hurried conversations at the bench. Finally, the judge nodded and the clerk scurried out through a door that Francis knew led to the jury room. A murmur of conversation started to build and the air became electric as
every eye was focused on the door. Every eye apart from Sam Kirby’s. She was, once more, staring right at Francis.

  It’s not over till it’s over.

  The phrase was easy for Francis to lip read as he’d heard her say it so many times before. But she was wrong. It was over – for her at any rate.

  The judge frowned at the rising level of chatter in his court.

  The door opened and there was a collective intake of breath as the jury came in. Francis looked at each one as they took their seats to see if any of them made eye contact with Sam Kirby. None of them did. Thank God for that.

  ‘Will the foreman of the jury please rise?’ said the clerk of the court.

  An older man, wearing a tweed jacket and twill trousers, stood up.

  ‘Have you reached a unanimous verdict on all charges?’ said the clerk.

  ‘We have,’ said the foreman. He looked a little self-important, excited to be executing his civic duty.

  ‘Please give me your verdicts,’ said the clerk.

  The foreman nodded and handed the clerk a folded slip of paper. The court was absolutely silent and the air in the room seemed to weigh heavily on Francis’s shoulders like a warm blanket. The clerk walked across to the bench and handed the piece of paper up to the judge. He unfolded it and read what was written on it. Francis tried to read his expression but he couldn’t – the judge had been in the game long enough and knew better than to show anything on his face.

  He folded the piece of paper again and turned to face the foreman.

  With a nod from the judge, the clerk started to speak.

  ‘Do you find Samantha Kirby guilty or not guilty of the murder of Giselle Connelly?’

  ‘Not guilty.’ The foreman said it a little too loudly and his words were greeted by a ripple of shock around the court.

  ‘Do you find Samantha Kirby guilty or not guilty of the murder of Evan Armstrong?’