by M. L Rose
He looked at Arla for the first time since she sat back down. “I knew nothing about his films, OK? That’s the truth.”
Arla nodded. “You knew about his family?”
“Yes. I know James. I went to college with him and David.”
Understanding flickered inside Arla’s mind. With it, a growing distaste about this washed up sad excuse of a human being. He slept with his friend’s son.
“Tell me about Laura.”
A sad smile appeared on his lips. “She was a lovely woman. She really was.”
“Was she depressed?”
“Not that I knew of. Why do you ask?”
“The way she died. You know about that, right?”
Simpson nodded. “Yes, it was a shock. No one expected her to go like that.”
“Do you know what happened?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I wasn’t there if that’s what you mean. I only read about it in the papers. Why are you bringing this up now?”
“Just answer me. What do you think happened?”
Simpson told her what she knew already. Arla stared at him for a while impassively. Then she asked, “You don’t find that odd? A woman takes an overdose, leaves her husband and son and jumps off a cliff?”
He frowned at her. “Of course. Everyone did. But it was a tragic accident. She had a diazepam habit. What can you do?”
Arla’s ears perked up. “She had a diazepam habit? Where did you hear that?”
“It was in the papers. One of her friends mentioned it.”
Arla wrote this down in her diary. “What friend?”
Simpson shrugged. “I don’t know. Friend’s name wasn’t mentioned in the paper.”
Arla went in for the kill. “You don’t think it’s strange that Luke was also outside when his mother fell off the cliff? The mother who hid his father’s identity all these years?”
Simpson lowered his brows. “Luke loved his mother. He would never do that.”
“So where was he at the time? Did you ever ask him?”
“He said he went for a walk, to have a cigarette. I believe him. You can’t expect a young man to be sitting with his parents all day.”
A thought occurred to Arla. “When did you get to know Luke?”
He frowned again. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
Arla glared at him till he answered. “Well, I had known David all his life so Luke from when he was little. But I got to know him better when he was a teenager…”
He stopped suddenly and his eyes widened. “Hey hang on…”
A sense of nausea was churning inside Arla’s stomach. That horrible feeling just before a vomit. She spat the words out. “Got him young, did you? Groomed him to become your...” Arla couldn't say the rest. She clenched her jaws, anger crackling inside her.
Simpson’s eyes were wild. His nostrils flared. He looked like a caged animal. “No. No, damn it. I didn't touch him as a boy. Only when he was an adult. Jesus, is that what you think I am?”
“What age?”
“I...I can’t remember.”
Arla slapped down her palm on the table with vicious force. The sound was like a sharp explosion in the small chamber. She stood abruptly, face mottled with blood, a vein pulsing in the middle of her forehead.
“What age, you lying bastard? What did you do to that boy?!” She was screaming, spittle flying from her mouth, rage and frustration frothing inside her soul, consuming her.
Nicole. I don’t want to think about Nicole.
Arla knocked the chair back as went around the table to stand over Simpson. She pointed a finger at him, breathing heavily.
“Lie to me and I’ll have you done for historic child abuse.”
Simpson stood, his chest heaving. “I never touched Luke when he was young.”
The door to the interview room opened and Rob stepped inside. He moved close to Arla. “Guv, let’s go.”
Arla took a deep breath and stepped back. She tucked hair strands behind both ears. The air shimmered, charged heavy with electric tension.
“I’ll ask you one more time before I charge you. What age?”
Simpson rubbed his leathery face. He grit his teeth. “About seventeen, eighteen, maybe? He was fully grown by then.”
Arla still felt sick, but she was back in control. Many missing pieces of the jigsaw were falling into place.
She indicated to Rob, and he started the camera and recorder. She asked Simpson, “Will you give a statement about you and Luke?”
Simpson sat down heavily. He stared forward, defeated, and licked dry lips. His voice was low, morose. “Do I need Jeremy?” Jeremy Hardcastle, his expensive lawyer.
“Well, this actually gets both and you Luke off the hook. Now you have an alibi for the night of David’s murder. Providing our checks validate your statement.”
Simpson sighed. “OK.”
Rob spoke into the recorder. Arla asked Simpson the name of the hotel and wrote it down.
Arla steeled herself. For her own sanity, she didn’t know if she could go through this, but she had to.
“Start from the beginning.”
Simpson said, “Luke was almost eighteen. Or over eighteen, I can’t remember. I hadn't touched him before that, but I had tried to chat him up. I could see that he was willing. I was at their house for a film inauguration party, one that I produced and David directed. It was a summer barbecue. That’s when it first happened.”
As he filled in the sordid details, Arla couldn't hide the grimace spreading across her face like ripples in a pond.
“Did Luke ever seem violent to you? Dangerous?”
Simpson shook his head. “Quite the opposite in fact. He didn't like action movies or fast cars, like most boys.”
Arla said, “He assaulted a girl at his boarding school. Did you know about that?”
“We talked about it once. He was confused. He didn't know if he was into boys or girls. He wanted to make it work with girls. Guess he tried too hard that time. But no, Luke didn't have a violent bone in his body.”
The sight of Simpson filled Arla with visceral hate. Here was an older man who had knowingly abused a young boy. Emotionally and perhaps sexually as well. Even if the sex had been consensual, Simpson had clearly groomed a vulnerable young boy for his own base pleasures.
But as much as she hated him, he also knew Luke. Of all the witnesses, he probably knew Luke the best.
She exhaled slowly. “Children who are abused grow up to become abusers themselves. You know that?”
Simpson looked away, fixing his eyes above her head. “If Luke was psychologically disturbed, then you had a part to play in it. Did you tell him about his real father?”
Simpson swivelled his eyes back at Arla. “No. He read that from David’s diaries. The ones David kept hidden in his bedroom.”
Arla said, “So that’s why he burgled the house. To get hold of the diaries.”
“Yes. I told him not to but he wouldn't listen.”
“Why is there a hammer in Luke’s house with David’s blood on it? We need to prove it, but I’m pretty sure that was the murder weapon.”
“I don’t know. Believe me. I have no idea.”
As much as she loathed the man, Arla sensed he was speaking the truth. And while she had him, she had to broach the other topic as well.
“Did you assault Cherie?”
His eyes were stony. “Depends on what she told you. It’s not like she never flirted with me.”
Arla snorted. “Are you saying it’s her fault?”
Simpson didn't answer. Arla hardened her voice. “You’re in a lot of trouble already, Mr. Simpson. Telling me the truth now is only going to help you.”
He threw his hands up. “Alright, alright, alright! I might have come on to her.”
“She said you shoved her inside the bathroom and pressed up against her. Feeling her. Is that correct?”
The look in Simpsons eyes was undecipherable. “Yes. Yes, I did. Happy now?”
>
Arla asked quietly, “And what about Tangye Gale? And the other woman who brought charges against you?”
A gleam flickered to life in Simpson’s eyes. It reminded Arla of a predator sensing blood. “Oh no. No, no, no. Those charges were thrown out of court. A long time ago.”
“Less than two years actually. And now you have a much worse charge hanging over your head. Potential historic child abuse. How do you feel about that?”
Simpson glared at her. “You got my statement. What more do you want?”
“Justice.” Arla said the word quietly, but it reverberated around the room.
Simpson’s head sunk on his chest. When he looked up his eyes were blurred. “I need my lawyer.”
CHAPTER 63
The door opened and Harry walked in. Rob shut the recorder. Arla cast one last contemptuous look at Simpson. He had the audacity to hold her gaze, venom in his eye. Arla curled her lips and brushed past Harry, out into the corridor. They went for a coffee, then Harry wanted a cigarette outside. It was cold, and a silvery rain whispered against the black tarmac of the car park, but Arla was grateful for some fresh air.
She filled Harry in. He sucked his cheeks. “Jeez, he’s a nasty piece of work, isn’t he?”
“Vile.” Arla kicked her shoes. “But it puts Luke in the clear, if his statement holds up.”
She inhaled as Harry exhaled. “How did it go with Luke?”
Harry eyed her. “Sorry. It should be you in there, asking him questions.”
“No bother. What happened?”
“He denies murdering David. Under pressure he broke down and admitted to being with Simpson that night.”
Arla nodded. “So it adds up. Why did he avoid us?”
“He was planning an attack on his real father for a while. He hated both of them. After David’s death, he brought his plan forward.”
“Did you ask him about his mother’s death? Laura Douglas.”
“Justin didn't see the point, but I asked him anyway. He denies that too. Says he was in the pub, watching a football match when it happened. They were in this village near the cliffs at a seaside in Kent.”
“Is he lying?”
Harry took a deep drag, then tilted his neck and blew rings of smoke of upwards. She loved it when he did that. The rings trembled and dissolved into the rain.
“Who knows. For my money, I think he’s too shaken up to lie. His hands move too much, he stutters, sweats; the guy’s a mess guv.”
“Arla,” she frowned at him. There was no one near them.
“Arla.”
Arla’s phone buzzed. It was Banerji. She answered.
The older man’s voice was down. “I heard. I’m sorry.”
“News spreads fast. But don’t worry. Things are moving in a new direction. Any news?”
“Yes. The metal fragment inside David’s brain is molybdenum and steel.”
“Moly what?”
“It’s a precious metal used to make steel stronger.”
Arla gripped the phone tighter. “Can it be used in a hammer?”
Banerji paused for a few seconds. “It’s commonly used in a hammer, Arla. It will take some time for the result to come back but there is a strong chance the hammer found in Luke’s house had Molybdenum in it.”
“Thanks Doc. Keep in touch.”
“No problem, Arla. Be careful.”
They walked back inside. Harry said, “Justin is talking to MI5, filling him in. Making sure James Fraser’s name stays out of it all.”
“That’s why he got the job,” Arla muttered angrily.
“I need to tell him about Simpson’s statement. He is the SIO after all. Besides, that statement changes a lot.”
They were back in her office. Arla sunk in her chair, weary. She rubbed her eyes and yawned. It was close to six pm.
“What now?” Harry asked. “The rest of the team are digging up more on Luke and Simpson. Do you want them to carry on?” He smiled. “Not that you’re the SIO anymore.”
“Yes, let them. I want to meet Tangye Gale tonight.”
“Who?”
CHAPTER 64
“The actress who accused Simpson of assaulting her,” Arla said.
“Oh yes.”
Arla sipped the new cup of coffee which they had picked up en route to her office. “Is Johnson upstairs?”
Harry stiffened. “Yes. Why?”
“I should tell him about Simpson myself. We need to move in a different direction now.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Positive.”
They took the stairs up to Johnson’s office. He was at his desk, with Justin Beauregard opposite him. Both looked surprised to see Arla. She ignored Beauregard and addressed Johnson.
“Luke didn’t do it sir. He was with Simpson the night of the murder.”
Johnson raised his eyebrows. Arla could feel the tension radiate from Beauregard. Johnson said, “But all the evidence points to Luke.”
Arla explained. Johnson listened with a frown on his face. By the end, he looked deeply thoughtful.
Arla said, “Both of them admit to being with each other, sir. All we have to do is check the hotel. We have the name. I can send someone now, and their alibis are confirmed.”
Justin Beauregard shook his head angrily. “We have the suspect downstairs. He’s just shown evidence of his violent nature by trying to kill his biological father. Is it so surprising he wouldn't kill his stepfather? A man he loathed?”
Johnson tapped the desk. “Justin’s right Arla.”
Beauregard beamed like a happy puppy. “We have the murder weapon at his home. With the victim’s DNA on it. I mean, come on. CPS will love us for this. Nice, easy prosecution.”
“That’s my problem, sir,” Arla said. “It’s too cut and dry. Too easy.”
Harry said, “And now both suspects have an alibi.”
“Yeah, each other,” Beauregard sneered at Harry. “And we all know what a good lawyer will do with a hotel receptionist’s statement. Rip it to shreds. How many people did they see that night?”
“Not unless there’s CCTV,” Arla pointed out. “Which, with this being central London, there will be. Even if they used fake names to book the name under and paid in cash.”
“But even if CCTV shows them at the hotel,” Justin protested, “How do we know one of them didn't leave via a back entrance? One could be covering for the other.”
Tiredness was driving impatience into Arla, and with it, anger. “Just because you want a prosecution, Justin, doesn’t mean we take the bait the real murderer is dangling in front of us.”
Johnson frowned. “A bait?”
Arla said firmly, “Yes sir, a bait. I think this killer is devious and cunning. He’s been planning this for ages. He knows what Luke is like. He’s thrusting Luke in front of us, hoping we grab the obvious culprit.” Arla made commas in the air with her hands as she said the last two words.
Johnson steepled his fingers and rocked back in his chair. “Sure you’re not overthinking this, Arla?”
She shook her head. “Simpson and Luke are lovers. Yes, they are both very messed up, but I don’t think they are killers.”
Beauregard said, “And what if you’re wrong? Details of this case are appearing in the tabloids every day. Imagine if we let Luke go. The press finds out about the evidence, and have a field day, laughing at us.” He looked at Johnson, desperation in his eyes. “We have to think about the safety of James Fraser sir. Can we really guarantee that when we let Luke out?”
The important question hung in the air. Arla glanced from Justin to Johnson, a heaviness in her soul. She rubbed her eyes. The coffee was working, but it would wear off soon. She could kill for a double G&T.
Johnson took a deep breath, then blew his cheeks out. “Justin is right. We cannot let Luke go free, not with that evidence. Besides,” he squinted at Arla, “Have you actually got another suspect?”
She found Harry’s face. His lips were set in a t
hin line and she knew he was thinking the same as her. To hell with this. She looked back to Johnson. “No, sir.”
She made fists of her hands as she heard the sigh of content that passed Beauregard’s mouth.
Arsehole.
Johnson leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desk. “Justin is the SIO in this case now, Arla. I know you two don’t like each other. But you need to put personality clashes aside here, and work for the case. Arla, you need to support Justin on this. Do I have your word?”
Arla looked at him with daggers in her eyes. Johnson looked uncomfortable. Arla held his eyes for a while, then nodded curtly. “Yes.”
Johnson turned to Justin. “Same goes for you, Justin. Work as a team. Alright?”
“Of course, sir.” Beauregard said in a nauseatingly happy voice. “I always do.”
CHAPTER 65
Harry drove down the winding inner city streets of Clapham. Raindrops smudged the windscreen, reflecting the haziness in Arla’s mind. Red and yellow lights from the traffic flickered like questions popping up in her brain, then dying without answers.
Harry said, “Something Lisa told me to tell you. Sorry, I forgot.”
“What?” She blinked at him.
“She went through Laura Douglas’s medical records. There was no mention of depression.”
Arla digested this in silence. “I want to look at those records myself.”
It was a habit, she had to sit down with the sheets of paper, or screens, making notes by hand, and go through them one by one. Something somewhere would click.
“How did Cherie sound when you spoke to her?” Arla asked.
They were on their way to see Cherie. Harry shrugged with one shoulder. “Pretty down.”
Ten minutes of traffic later, they were pulling up outside the Victorian mansion house now split into apartments and a Bed and Breakfast. The B&B was a show. In reality, it was a safe house for the London Met’s Witness Protection Programme.
The guard at the gate checked their ID before letting them in. The receptionist knew Arla. They signed their names and ranks, then took the flight of stairs up to the second floor. A depressing green carpet made the corridor look smaller than it was. Dark oak panelling on the walls didn't help. Arla knew some Victorian gentleman had thought it looked splendid, but to her eyes it was dull, boring.