He had one of her police files in his hand, a piece of paper in the other. She recognised the logo of the prison in the top-right corner.
She went to stand up on wobbly legs, leaning on the sink for assistance.
‘Why? You have no right to go visiting that man.’ Harry stormed out into the living room, picking up his jacket.
Kate followed him. ‘I’m doing my job. I wanted to know what happened to the gun.’
Harry snapped round to face her. ‘Who cares? It’s a murder case from fifteen years ago. You’re supposed to be investigating what happened to Thea; my father has nothing to do with it.’ He pushed past her into the hallway.
‘Don’t you want to know how he is? You should go and see him. He’s not got long left, Harry.’
Harry paused, his back to her, one hand on the latch to let himself out. ‘I don’t want to know,’ he said. ‘He killed them, and that’s all there is.’
‘But I think there is more,’ Kate continued, the last remnants of alcohol spurring her on. ‘There’s a connection, I know there is. And he can’t remember what happened – he doesn’t know where the gun ended up. We know there was no time for him to hide it, he was unconscious when the police showed up.’
‘Not everything is a mystery to be solved, Kate,’ Harry said, turning to face her. ‘It’s not all about right and wrong, black and white. Leave it alone, please.’
‘Don’t you want to know? Don’t you care what happened that day?’ She rambled, thoughts tumbling out of her mouth. ‘What if your father didn’t act alone? And what if he didn’t kill them, Harry?’
‘I was there!’ Harry shouted. ‘We were there. We saw him shoot them. We saw him.’
Kate took a step back. ‘That wasn’t in the file.’
‘No, it wasn’t, was it? What did it say? That we were in the garden? That’s what we told them and it was all too convenient for them to believe. But we know he’s guilty, we saw him do it.’
Kate grabbed Harry by the forearms. ‘So where’s the gun? If you were there, where’s the gun?’
He moved away from her, his back to the front door. ‘It was such chaos. The shouting, the noise, then Gabi and Thea crying.’ He looked down at her, the pain and horror visible on his face. ‘We did what we had to do, we got out of there. Just leave it be, Kate, please,’ he added, quietly. ‘We know he did it, and he’s going to die in prison. Just leave it be.’
He turned and opened the front door, walking out into the street. Kate watched him climb into his car and drive off.
‘Fuck,’ she said under her breath. She closed the door and went back into the living room. The bottle of vodka lurked on the table, the lid off. She picked it up, staring at it accusingly.
With one swift movement, she walked to the sink and tipped it down the drain. She stood there, gagging from the smell, watching it glug away to nothing.
Kate went back into her living room, picking up one of the files she had taken from work, then sitting down on the sofa. If the police reports were wrong about the teenagers, if Harry and Thea and Gabi were there in the kitchen when their parents were shot, what else was missing from the file? How did they get out of the house if the doors were locked? What else had she assumed was true?
She picked up the first piece of paper and began to read.
40
Gabi was in the kitchen with Mortimer when they heard the banging on the front door.
It was Harry. He was hyperventilating, one arm supporting himself on the doorframe. He looked at Gabi, his eyes wide.
The two of them pulled him into the living room and he fell onto the sofa. He was a mess. Gabriella had never seen him like this before. His whole body was shaking, soaked with sweat. Mortimer fetched a glass of water and Gabi perched next to Harry, placing it in his hands.
Slowly, his breathing returned to normal and Harry looked at her, his face pale.
‘I can see the gun, smell the burning,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It’s always going to follow us. We’ll never get away, Gabi.’
When Harry seemed a bit calmer, Gabi went into the kitchen to make him a cup of tea. Mortimer followed her in.
‘Has he ever seen anyone about this?’ he asked.
Gabi glanced back into the living room where Harry was sitting with his head in his hands. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Has he ever seen a professional? To talk all of this through?’ The kettle clicked off and Gabi poured hot water into two mugs. ‘It must have been incredibly traumatic, what all of you went through.’
‘We’re not American – we don’t go running to our therapist every time something upsetting happens.’ Gabi squished the tea bags against the sides of the mugs and reached into the fridge for the milk. ‘Fucked up or not,’ she added bitterly, remembering Mortimer’s comments at Thea’s bedside in the hospital.
Mortimer winced. ‘I’m sorry I said that, Gabi,’ he replied. ‘I was overwrought, it wasn’t fair. To you or Thea.’ He paused, looking at her. ‘But nonetheless, you watched your parents be gunned down in your own home, by his father,’ Mortimer said, pointing at Harry. ‘This is exactly what therapists are for, Gabriella.’
‘I know what happened, thank you.’ Gabi shut the fridge and picked up the two mugs. ‘Just let me talk to him, Mort, please?’
Mortimer agreed reluctantly, and sat down at the kitchen table where his laptop was open. ‘I’ll be here if you need me.’
Gabi went back into the living room and put the tea in front of Harry. She sat next to him and put her hand on his arm. He lifted his head and looked at it.
‘What happened, Harry?’ Gabi asked softly.
He looked at her, his face pale. ‘She went to see my father. The detective. She went to see him in prison.’
‘And?’
‘She’s digging. Trying to find out what happened. She doesn’t think Dad did it.’
‘And what did you say?’ Gabi asked, cautiously.
‘I told her we were there, we saw him with our own eyes. I told her to leave it alone, because we know he did it.’
‘And did Harrison say anything different when she saw him?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Gabi stopped for a second, thinking. She barely dared to ask. ‘And do the police have the gun?’
He shook his head.
‘Where is it, Harry?’
‘Somewhere hidden. It’s safe.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ Gabi asked.
Harry picked up the mug of tea and cupped it between both hands. He took a deep breath in and out. ‘What if …’ he started.
‘What if, what?’
He stopped talking, shaking his head, his breath escaping out of him in bursts.
Gabi took the mug away and placed it on the table. She took his hands in hers, and pulled him round to face her on the sofa. ‘So you told her we were there. So what?’ Gabi spoke to him slowly. ‘That doesn’t change the fact that Harrison confessed. They know nothing. They don’t know about the gun. There is no mystery here, and the sooner this detective realises it, the better.’
Harry nodded slowly.
Gabi looked at him, worried. ‘It’s getting late, and you’re tired,’ she said. ‘Stay here tonight, with me and Mortimer. And we’ll talk again in the morning.’
With the mention of Mortimer’s name, Harry let go of her hands.
‘No, no, I should be getting home. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have disturbed you.’ He stood up, and Gabi put her hand on his arm to stop him, but he pushed her off. ‘You’re married now, I’m in the way. I shouldn’t have dropped round unannounced.’
He walked quickly out of the living room and into the hallway. Gabi followed behind him.
‘Any time, Harry, please. I mean that.’
‘I’m sorry.’ With a cold gust of wind, the front door opened and Harry rushed out to his car.
Gabi watched until his car had disappeared down the road. She felt Mortimer’s arms around her waist.
‘Y
ou did all you could,’ Mortimer said. ‘He’s not your responsibility.’
Gabi pressed her lips together and shook her head. ‘No, he is. He always has been.’
Mortimer encouraged her away from the front door and they returned to the kitchen. He had been chopping vegetables, and the room was filled with the smell of garlic and onions, cooking on the hob.
Gabi sat at the counter top and watched him, thinking about Harry. Why was she worried that the police would find out what happened? Wasn’t that what she wanted? Perhaps she wasn’t so sure after all.
In her heart of hearts, she didn’t want anything bad to happen to Harry. She still … what? Loved him? Maybe so, but not in the same way as back then. Gabriella idly wondered how differently things might have turned out if she had stayed, back then, after the funeral. Or if Harry had gone with her and they’d run away together.
But there was no point in thinking about what ifs. No point in wondering. She had tried it once and it had been sweet and wonderful and perfect. She remembered that night, after. She’d watched him sleep, almost boyish, his eyelashes flickering against his cheeks. She’d run her hand across his tanned back, taking in the contours, how he’d changed. For the first time in years, she’d felt calm. In that moment, with him, everything had been forgotten and she was right where she should have been.
But it had been impossible for them to be together. It was the same now; the same as it had ever been.
Tuesday
41
DC Yates was bouncing in front of the whiteboard as Kate arrived for the day.
‘Forensics report is in,’ she said happily, flapping the piece of paper at Kate.
‘Oh, thank fuck,’ Kate said. ‘Have you read it – what does it tell us?’
‘Well …’ Yates started talking, running her finger down the page. ‘Early Evidence Kit shows …’ She paused, not wanting to break the news. ‘Well, nothing of note.’
‘Brilliant,’ Kate muttered sarcastically.
‘But …’ Yates pointed to the next paragraph. ‘Semen on the front of Thea’s dress, DNA under her fingernails …’
‘So something did happen with a man that night,’ Kate said. ‘Any idea who?’
‘Running it now. Nothing yet. But! Saving the best for last …’ Yates smiled. ‘They managed to find some fingerprints on the bag. Some were Thea’s, as you’d expect, a few partials, but also two complete prints. And they’re in the system.’
Kate punched both arms in the air triumphantly. ‘And?’
‘A local guy – Dave Fletcher. They’re bringing him in now.’
Kate did a little dance. At last, something they could actually follow up on.
‘This just backs up my theory though, doesn’t it?’ Yates said. ‘That the attack was random, nothing to do with their parents’ murder at all.’
‘Maybe,’ Kate conceded, as Briggs walked into the room. ‘Let’s wait and see. Where have you been?’
Briggs waggled his head, mocking her. ‘No need to get all arsey, I’ve been busy.’
Kate stared at him pointedly. ‘Okay, okay,’ Briggs said, sitting down and pulling his notebook closer to him. ‘So, I’ve been looking into your boy here, Mr Handsome Blue Eyes.’ He pointed up at the photo of Harry on the whiteboard. ‘Both him and his father are pretty dull, no records, nothing of note before 2004. But his mother – Ellen Becker – was admitted to the local funny farm in 1995, for a suicide attempt relating to disorganised schizophrenia.’ Briggs held his hands out, as if expecting applause.
‘And?’ Yates was unimpressed. ‘What does that tell us?’
‘Well, what if our boy here has the same? You are …’ Briggs looked down and checked his notes ‘… thirteen times more likely to have schizophrenia if one of your parents has it.’
‘But it doesn’t mean he does have it,’ Yates argued. ‘And even if he does, it doesn’t mean he’s violent. Just because someone is schizophrenic, it doesn’t make them a danger to others.’
‘I know – I hadn’t finished.’ Briggs swivelled round on his chair. ‘In 1997 she tries again, obviously learnt from previous experience and manages it this time. Hangs herself. And guess who finds the body?’
‘Who? Not Harry Becker?’ Yates replied. ‘Poor sod.’
‘I’m just saying – maybe we should look a bit more closely at him, that’s all.’ They both looked up at Kate. ‘What do you think, Sarge? Do a bit more digging?’
Kate had been watching the exchange between the two of them nervously. She knew all this of course, but had said nothing, not wanting to receive questions about how she had discovered this potentially juicy source of information. And she felt guilty for Harry. He had confided in her, had trusted her. She hadn’t heard from him after last night, and she knew she wasn’t going to. Not now. It was a good thing, she told herself.
She turned back to Briggs, keeping her face as expressionless as possible, but they had already been distracted, Yates telling Briggs about the forensics report, about the fingerprints on the bag.
She swivelled around in her chair and faced the computer, typing in paroxetine, remembering the medication in Harry’s cabinet. Paroxetine is a type of antidepressant known as an SSRI, she read. Often used to treat depression and obsessive compulsive disorder, panic attacks, anxiety or post-traumatic stress disorder. She stopped, her fingers resting on the keyboard. Would it be any wonder, she thought, given what he’d been through?
Harry had discovered his mother’s body when he was just eleven. Kate had been first on the scene for a hanging case once: the man’s skin red, his dry tongue protruding from his open mouth. It stayed with you, even if you hadn’t personally known the victim.
Then he’d watched his father commit double homicide. It was a miracle Harry Becker was still getting up in the morning.
Kate felt guilty again and pulled herself away from Harry, switching her screen to the Police National Computer, looking up their new suspect. David Wayne Fletcher, 46. Started early in life with multiple charges of shoplifting, graduating to drunk and disorderly, common assault, then some time inside for GBH with intent. A nice guy, Kate thought grimly.
The phone rang and Yates snatched it up.
‘He’s here,’ she said, and jumped up from her seat.
‘Come on then,’ Kate said, picking up the file. ‘Let’s go test out your theory.’
Dave Fletcher was skinny and twitchy. He had tiny eyes in an acne-scarred face, and greasy hair tied back in a ponytail. He smelt of old sweat and cheap booze and Kate was not enjoying being in a confined space with him.
He had taken the first opportunity to demand his legal counsel. The solicitor on call had arrived surprisingly fast, but gave Kate an expression that said he would rather be anywhere but there. He sat in the chair next to his client in an old baggy suit going shiny at the elbows.
‘Mr Fletcher,’ Kate said, placing her hands on the folder in front of her. ‘Do you want to guess what we have in this file?’
‘You ain’t got nothing on me,’ he replied, showing a row of yellow teeth.
‘Ah, but we have.’ Kate was enjoying herself; it was nice to be able to do some actual police work – to interview someone and be on the front foot for a change. ‘Dave. You’re not new to this, you know how it works. I show you what I have in this folder, you’ll deny it and then I’ll charge you with attempted murder anyway. Why don’t you save us some time?’
The colour drained out of Dave Fletcher’s face. ‘Whoa there, lady. You never said nothing about attempted murder. I’ve not tried to kill anyone.’
‘What did you think the officers said when they picked you up?’
‘Yeah, but I thought you were just trying to scare me, like.’ He fidgeted in the chair, hands picking at one of the scars on his face. ‘Who says I tried to kill them?’
Kate pulled the fingerprint report out of the folder and pushed it in front of him. The solicitor craned his neck to take a look. ‘See here, these are your fingerprints on
a bag stolen from a young woman last Saturday night, a week ago. She was attacked on the common, left for dead. We don’t like that kind of thing round here. Tend to frown on low lifes like you trying to kill young women.’ She pushed a photo of the bag across to Dave and he looked at it.
‘I want a word with my lawyer,’ he said, and crossed his arms on his scrawny chest.
‘Fine,’ Kate replied, picking up the paper. ‘Take all the time you need. But get comfortable, because when we come back in, we’ll be charging you.’ His solicitor looked up at her with surprise and Kate met his gaze and nodded. She turned back to Dave Fletcher. ‘I can’t think you’re going to be getting out any time soon,’ she added.
Outside the room, Yates whispered to Kate. ‘Are we going to call the CPS, then?’
Kate shook her head. ‘We’ll need more than a few fingerprints before they’ll be keen on charging him. But it’s a start.’
She stopped as the solicitor poked his head back round the door and gestured them inside. ‘Mr Fletcher would like to share some information with you,’ he said. ‘On the condition you don’t charge him with attempted murder.’
‘Let’s see what he has to say first,’ Kate said, and looked across the table at Dave. ‘Start talking.’
‘I was there, on the common. But I never attacked her.’ Dave got a look from his solicitor and he frowned. ‘Okay, so I might have pushed her a bit, to try and get the bag off her, but no more than that.’ He put his hands on the table, palms up. ‘I swear. I didn’t need to. She was all pissed and wobbly and pretty much gave it to me. I ran off, took the cards and cash, then tossed it in the bushes. It was shit, there wasn’t even a phone in there. That was it, I swear. I didn’t try to kill her.’
Kate shrugged. ‘Okay, so let’s say I believe you. Let’s pretend that you are just a common mugger. Did you see anyone else that night on the common?’
Dave glanced at his solicitor, who nodded. ‘Yeah. I might have. What are you going to do for me if I cough up?’
‘Just tell them,’ the solicitor said, his voice tired.
Ask Me No Questions Page 17