Ask Me No Questions

by Louisa de Lange

  ‘It’s a bit late for that now, don’t you think?’ Harry stuttered. ‘They’re the only family, the only home, I ever really had.’ He could feel his hands shaking, the anger building. ‘You were always too busy with her to pay any attention to me.’

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry.’ Harrison looked down and worried at a piece of skin at the edge of his fingernail. ‘I loved her,’ he said quietly.

  ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Harry stood up suddenly, the chair screeching on the tiled floor, making the guards look over. Harry glanced at them, then leaned forward on the table, his face next to his father’s. ‘You should have loved me more,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘And that should have stopped you picking up the gun that day. It’s only ever been Thea and Gabi who mattered to me. Not you. Not ever. Never again,’ he told himself, and walked towards the door.

  ‘Harry, please. I’m here because I love you, can’t you see that, son?’ Harrison pleaded, calling after him.

  Harry turned back. ‘I am not your son,’ he said.

  Harry stumbled through security, out of the prison, tripping over his feet to get to his car. He fumbled with his keys, dropping them on the concrete, then climbed in, placing both his hands on the steering wheel to steady himself.

  This was exactly why he hadn’t been to visit his father. All this crap, all spilling to the surface. The man was responsible for ruining his life before; he wasn’t going to do it again. Not now.

  He started the car and drove away from the prison. But the more distance he put between them, the more he realised what he’d lost. He wouldn’t see his father again. He was as much an orphan as the twins. No family, no relatives. Nobody except them.

  His body started to shake and his legs struggled to make contact with the accelerator. A car coming in the other direction beeped him and he swerved back to his side of the road, hurriedly pulling into a lay-by as his eyes blurred. Tears ran down his face; his body took over, convulsing in great racking sobs.

  The police digging, investigating Thea’s attack and the murders; all these years on and it was like it had happened yesterday. Fifteen years of denial and therapy and cognitive behavioural this and that, and it was all coming down to tonight, crying by the side of the road, in the cold and the dark. He put his arms on the steering wheel and rested his head, crying desperate tears for his childhood, his parents, everything he had lost.

  So his childhood hadn’t been normal, but for a while, he’d been happy. He could cope with the strange looks from other kids in the playground, with the teasing and sniggers about his mother, as long as he had the twins by his side. But then Robert said he couldn’t see them any more, and Madeleine would have taken the twins, and that couldn’t happen, it couldn’t, but then it didn’t matter because they were dead and his father went to prison and everything had gone.

  Even Gabi left. He’d resolved to track her down, but then the world had become suffocating and he’d barely been able to leave the house. He’d been trapped in a world of triggers and flashbacks; memories that crawled into his life without warning, reducing him to a pathetic shell on the floor. Living each day in stress mode, constantly on edge, waiting for the worst to happen. And in bed at 2 a.m., shaking, sweating, nightmares worse than any horror film.

  The engine idled as he cried. Headlights from the road threw strange shadows across the car, moving through an arc of black and white, but he didn’t notice, too lost in the black hole.

  It was never over; it could never be behind him. He would never be normal again.

  50

  Kate rested against the window, enjoying the cool glass against her forehead. She exhaled, and instantly the window was clouded with condensation from her breath. It was dark outside; she could see cars charging along the dual carriageway on one side, people walking down the pavement towards town on the other. She envied them with their lives to go to, their warm homes and their families. She wondered what Sam was doing at that moment.

  When they were married, she’d often arrive home to tempting smells from dinner cooking in the oven, Sam sat watching the six o’clock news, waiting for her. She’d change out of her uniform and slump next to him on the sofa, muscles aching.

  ‘Long day?’ he’d ask.

  ‘Always,’ she’d reply, and they’d move on to talk about more interesting topics. What their friends had said on Facebook, what they were planning for the weekend. They’d watch television. Mundane, trivial things mostly, but the sort of chat that kept a relationship alive. They’d go to bed at the same time, clean their teeth, use the toilet with the door open. Sometimes they’d fuck; sometimes it was gentle, loving. Often they wouldn’t do it at all. But that was okay. Mutual friends, mutual lives.

  She wasn’t sure now what he watched on TV. Their friends were now his. She had no idea who he was fucking.

  The thought of Sam in bed with someone else made tears prick behind her eyes, so she turned away from her little diorama at the window, back to the ops room with the harsh fluorescent lighting and whiteboard. Harry stared out at her, accusingly.

  She’d been horrible to him, she knew, but that was her job, she told herself. That was how she got results. But despite that he’d kept quiet; he could have told his solicitor what they’d been doing together and she’d have been suspended without a doubt, maybe even sacked once Professional Standards had finished with her. Harry could have done that at any time, but he hadn’t. Kate wondered why.

  She picked up her bag and pulled out the brown envelope. She’d been carrying it around for days. Her drunken self may have signed on the dotted line, but her conscious mind hadn’t been ready to call an end to her marriage. But perhaps it was time. Harry had done the decent thing for her, despite how she had treated him, and she should do the same for Sam. She stuck a yellow Post-it note to the pages and scribbled a brief message.

  I’m sorry, she wrote. I should have trusted you, I should have listened. Kxx

  She pushed the signed pages back in and sealed the top, placing it in the post tray with the other mail.

  Kate heard laughter and turned to the doorway, where Briggs and Yates were arriving back from their coffee run. Yates handed a mug to Kate, along with a packet of Maltesers.

  ‘Thought you might need these,’ she said.

  Briggs sat down at his computer, flicking through the screens. He looked over his shoulder to Kate. ‘Ballistics report is back,’ he said.

  ‘Thought we weren’t looking at that case any more,’ Yates said, sat next to him, still working through the CCTV Ryan had given them that morning.

  ‘We’re not,’ Kate replied. ‘I requested the analysis on Monday.’ She paused, until curiosity got the better of her. ‘Tell us anyway.’

  ‘There’s nothing much here,’ Briggs muttered, his eyes scanning the screen. ‘Just says that the bullets that shot Madeleine and Robert Patterson were from the same gun, nine-millimetre, possibly World War Two issue. Traces of rust on the bullets. Above-average amount of black powder residue.’ He looked up. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Doesn’t tell us much.’

  ‘No, and without a gun to compare it to, that’s all they can say.’ Briggs clicked away from the email and onto another. ‘And the blood results are back from forensics,’ he added, pointing to his screen.

  Kate jumped up and joined him at his computer, looking over his shoulder as they read the detailed report.

  ‘Oh, but that’s weird …’ Briggs muttered.

  Briggs ran his finger across a line of text then looked up at her, meeting Kate’s puzzled expression with his own.

  ‘0.06?’ he muttered. ‘How can Thea Patterson have had a blood alcohol level of 0.06? My gran is more pissed than that on the Christmas sherry.’

  Kate frowned. ‘She was a mess, we can see that from the CCTV. There’s no way that’s right.’ Her eyes continued to scan the report as Briggs scrolled down the page. ‘There, there, stop there,’ she said, pointing to a complicated chemical name.

  ‘Flunit
razepam? What’s that?’ Briggs asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kate replied. ‘But I bet you it’s nothing good.’ She looked at Briggs, a smile on her face, suddenly full of energy. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Call the lab, get someone medical to translate this waffle. And chase the rest of the forensics. Yates – keep going with the CCTV.’

  She jumped up from her seat and looked at the whiteboard. ‘It’s about time we caught a break. Let’s get this fucker.’

  51

  This wasn’t a good idea, Harry told himself, this was not a good idea at all. It was dark, it was starting to drizzle, and it had been a long time since he had attempted anything like this. His head was spinning and his foot slipped. He grabbed the branches next to him, cursing under his breath as one caught him on his cheek. He slapped it away angrily, pushing upwards through the leaves.

  Thea had told him about the search of the basement; he knew what the detectives had been looking for. It was here, wrapped in plastic, covered in fingerprints and hair and skin, all sorts of things that the police would love.

  Back then it had been a rush job to hide it. He had panicked, and this had been the first place that came to mind. But leaving it up here had been crazy.

  A hundred times he’d gone to get rid of it, and every time he’d held back. It was the only thing that could save his father, the final piece to assuage his guilt. But Harry knew what his father would say. Seeing him today had only confirmed it in his mind. Get rid of it. Now.

  He pushed on, one branch after another, pulling himself up, breathing heavily. The rain had started to come down in sheets; his T-shirt was drenched and water dripped down his face. His fingers were numb. There couldn’t be much further to go, surely.

  He pushed branches and leaves out of the way, and there it was. Nailed to the trunk of the tree, the wooden box looked as fragile and weather-beaten as it always had. He reached up and opened the top, feeling inside, but the nail didn’t hold and it shifted, coming loose and plunging to the ground.

  Harry heard it fall, his heart in his mouth. He heard the crashes as it hit the branches on the way down, then quiet. He followed it, as quickly as he could, his hands slipping on the wet branches, twigs flicking painfully against his skin.

  He remembered the fear back then. He remembered all those years ago he had been fighting to catch his breath, almost hyperventilating with the shock of what had happened. The hot smell of burning; the noise loud enough to echo and bounce around the room. Searing pain in his hand. One body already on the ground, the other falling. Blood everywhere.

  The shocked expression on Thea’s face. Gabi screaming, turning away from the horror.

  He let out a sigh of relief as his feet hit the mud at the bottom of the tree, then bent down and started looking. He dropped to his knees, sludge soaking through his jeans, and ran his hands over the soft ground. Was he looking in the wrong place? He moved slightly to the left and scrabbled around again, moving rocks and dirt, not caring how wet and cold he was.

  And then there it was. A broken piece of wood, and the edge of a plastic bag. He pulled it towards him, discarding the wrecked bird box, now shattered on the ground.

  He stood up, moving out of the shadow of the old oak. In the light from the moon, he rolled the plastic bag round, unwrapping what was contained inside. The last fragment came clear, and he reached inside and touched it, the cold metal coming in contact with his skin. He remembered it now.

  Suddenly, he felt a rush in his stomach and bent over, vomiting into the undergrowth. He stood up, groaning, and wiped the back of his arm across his mouth. He pushed his hand into the plastic bag, wrapped his fingers round the grip and held it in front of him. Heavy, solid, cold.

  He had the gun.

  Thursday

  52

  Dressed head to toe in white paper suits, the scene of crime officers resembled ghosts to Kate. They moved in and out of the doorway of the nightclub, shifting equipment one way, plastic bags in the other. Kate stood on the empty pavement and watched them, her gloved hands thrust in her coat pockets, her scarf wrapped round her neck.

  The club’s doorway had been cordoned off and police vans filled the road, attracting an array of curious onlookers. The uniform guarding the line beckoned her over and she ducked under the blue and white tape, standing next to Ryan.

  ‘I guess this is it then,’ he said to her. Like her, his coat was buttoned up to his reddened nose, glasses filling the gap between collar and black woolly hat. ‘No one’s going to want to come here now.’

  ‘No, I expect not,’ Kate replied.

  He stared grimly at his ruined livelihood. ‘Someone’s going to tell him soon, you know. He has friends round here, and then I can’t say what he’ll do.’

  ‘We have someone watching him.’

  ‘And are you watching me?’ Ryan looked at Kate and she met his gaze. She knew he was worried. And he was right to be.

  ‘I gave you access in good faith, DS Munro,’ he continued.

  ‘I know, and we appreciate that, Mr Holmes.’

  One of the crime scene officers emerged from the club, a face mask obscuring his features. With a blue plastic glove, he waved to Kate and she left Ryan standing at the cordon.

  She walked over and wordlessly the SOCO showed her two plastic evidence bags.

  Kate pulled the phone out of her pocket and made a call.

  ‘Yates? We have it,’ she said. ‘Arrest Steve Morgan.’

  53

  Kate hovered outside the interview room, her body buzzing. She was excited. She knew they had everything they needed, but she had to calm down. She couldn’t mess this up.

  She took two deep breaths, in and out, then turned the handle.

  Steve Morgan was at the table, Briggs opposite him. She took a seat next to Briggs and placed the file in front of her.

  ‘I’m getting bored of this,’ Steve said, his knee bobbing up and down under the table. ‘I can’t wait to see what you think you’ve got on me, so I can get out of here and sue your lovely police department.’

  Kate didn’t say a word, and looked at Briggs. He nodded to her, slowly, showing his solidarity.

  ‘So, DC Briggs has cautioned you, and you have turned down your right to free independent legal advice,’ she started.

  ‘I don’t need it.’

  ‘Okay,’ Kate said, calmly. She felt good now. She looked him right in the eye.

  ‘So, tell us again about your movements on the night Thea Patterson was attacked. On Saturday the nineteenth of January?’

  Steve Morgan gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘I was at the club, working. All night.’

  ‘And did you see Thea Patterson?’

  ‘Yes, except we thought she was her sister, Gabriella.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Ryan Holmes and I. You should be arresting him, not me. She was his girl, you know.’

  ‘We know. Except he was passed out all night, so it couldn’t possibly have been him, right?’

  ‘So he says,’ Steve said, a scornful grin on his face.

  ‘So your cameras say too.’ Kate nodded to Briggs and he put the laptop on the table, loading up the file.

  ‘Mr Morgan, can you describe what you’re looking at?’ Kate asked.

  Steve leaned forward. ‘That’s my office,’ he said, his head snapping up to look at Kate. ‘How have you got CCTV from my office?’

  ‘Mr Holmes kindly gave it to us.’ Kate smiled. ‘Turns out he doesn’t like being accused of attempted murder when he has an alibi conveniently recorded on camera.’

  The video continued to roll and Steve watched it.

  Briggs filled in as Steve stared open-mouthed. ‘So here, you can see the timestamp of one-thirty a.m., and here’s Mr Holmes.’ He pointed to the screen as Ryan rolled into view, his legs unsteady, his body reeling. He sat on the sofa in the office for a moment, a drink in his hand, then sank into the cushions, his eyes closing. ‘As you can see, he’s looking a bit the worse for wear.’


  ‘Always was a lightweight,’ Steve mocked. ‘But what does this have to do with me?’

  ‘Because, Mr Morgan, we were curious.’ Kate pulled a sheet of paper out of the file in front of her. ‘When we got the blood results back on Thea Patterson, we couldn’t understand how someone who acted so drunk on camera, who could barely stand as she walked away from your club, could only have a blood alcohol level of 0.06. That’s not even the legal limit.’

  Steve Morgan sat back in his seat and shrugged.

  ‘So we looked a little further down the page, and can you see what else was in her blood?’ Kate pointed to a line on the piece of paper.

  ‘Flunitrazepam?’ Steve said, slowly pronouncing the syllables. ‘I have no idea what that is.’

  ‘Nor did we,’ Kate said, smiling. ‘So we asked our medical colleagues, and do you know what they said? It’s a sort of benzodiazepine. Sometimes known as Rohypnol?’ Kate saw a flicker of recognition cross Steve’s face. His brow narrowed for a moment. ‘You must know what Rohypnol is, Mr Morgan?’

  ‘Someone spiked her drink, so what?’

  ‘You’re not worried that this sort of thing has been going on at your club?’ Kate waved a hand, dismissing her own question. ‘Never mind.’ She paused, drumming her fingers on the table. ‘I’d like to show you a little jigsaw puzzle that my brilliant detectives have been piecing together. But let’s run it backwards, for fun.’

  Briggs pulled the file on the laptop back up and Kate pointed at the screen. ‘See this glass?’ she said, pointing to the one Ryan was holding on the sofa. ‘It has some letters on it: “Mrs”, it says.’ Steve crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared at Kate. ‘One of a set, as you told me last week, and distinctive, I’m sure you can agree, so we can track it across the CCTV footage that you generously gave us. Here it is in Mr Holmes’s hand and …’ Briggs rewound the tape, then shifted to a different perspective from a different camera. ‘… here it is again, in Thea Patterson’s, as she passes it to Mr Holmes, hours before.’