“I haven’t been telling lies, honest.”
“And I hate it,” said Uddin, “when people append words like ‘honest,’ or ‘honestly,’ or ‘to be straight with you’ to their statements. It gets my goat.”
He was no longer even bothering to look at Holmby. Uddin’s face, thought Priestman, bore an expression of intense existential sadness, as though he had already heard too many lies in his life, yet Karl Holmby seemed intent on disappointing him further by adding at least one more untruth to his burden.
“I didn’t sleep with Miss Moon, if that’s what you mean,” said Holmby. “I just said I did.”
“Said it to whom?” asked Priestman.
“Ryan.”
“Ryan Clifton?”
“Yes.”
“And why would you do that?”
Holmby shrugged. He couldn’t meet her eyes, so kept his own fixed on the table. “Dunno.”
“ ‘Dunno’ isn’t good enough. Try again.”
“I thought it would be funny.”
“Funny to say that you’d slept with your ex-teacher?”
“And cool. Because she was older and, you know, good-looking.”
“Is that all?”
Holmby’s face had already turned red, but it darkened further.
“No.” His voice was small.
“Go on.”
“I tried to, you know…”
“No, I don’t.”
“I tried to kiss her once, at her flat. I did kiss her, but she pushed me away. She told me not to be silly.”
“When was this?”
“After I got my results. I went to her flat to tell her. She invited me in, asked if I wanted a coffee. She was really pleased. I hugged her, and she hugged me back, although not as hard, and that was when—when I did it.”
“But she rejected you.”
“Yes.”
“Was she nice about it?”
A shrug, which suggested the encounter hadn’t just been awkward, but something more.
“How did it make you feel, when she did that?”
“I was ashamed.”
“Were you angry?”
“I suppose.”
“What did you do then?”
“I left.”
“Left?”
“I ran out, and—”
Holmby swallowed. He was still staring at the table, but Uddin could see that his face was red, and his eyes were watering, although whether from grief or remembered humiliation remained unclear.
“Go on. You’ve come this far. We may as well hear it all.”
“I called her a name.”
“What name?”
“I called her a cock-teaser.” The tears were in full flow now. “I felt bad after, but I didn’t know how to say I was sorry.”
“So instead you told Ryan Clifton that you’d slept with her?”
“Yes.”
“And he believed you?”
“Yes.”
“That was a strange way to show you were sorry for what happened.”
“I was still angry, too.”
“With Miss Moon?”
“And with myself—mostly with myself.” He looked up now. “I wasn’t angry enough to hurt her, though. I really liked her. I wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t helped me. I was planning to go to her funeral, bring some flowers. I was going to say sorry then. I thought it would be my last chance.”
Priestman sat back. She told herself that Karl Holmby was still just a boy, with all of a boy’s capacity for selfishness and mindless malevolence, but if one of her sons ever behaved as badly as this, she’d string him up by the balls.
“Karl, I have to ask you where you were on the night Romana Moon was killed.”
Holmby answered without hesitation.
“I was at home.”
“You seem very sure of that.”
“I had an exam the next day, which is how I know, and I haven’t been going out much these past few weeks. I want to do well here, so I don’t have time to mess about. Even if I hadn’t been studying, I’d still have remembered where I was when I heard she died, and what I was doing when it might have happened.”
“Can someone confirm you were home?”
“My mum. She was with me.”
“Do you drive, Karl?”
“No. I mean, I’ve been behind the wheel of some of my mates’ cars, and I know how to drive, but I don’t have a license. I’m going to work during the summer to pay for lessons, and pick up some old banger on the cheap. Either way, I figure a license would be a good thing to have.”
Priestman had resumed recording everything he said in her careful shorthand. Holmby watched her write.
“What is that?”
“It’s a version of Pitman shorthand.”
“Must be useful.”
“It is. Who told you about Romana Moon’s death?”
“Ryan did. He heard about it at school, and texted me.”
“And how did you react?”
“I saw the message as I was waiting for the bus home. I called him, just to be sure he wasn’t joking.”
“Is that the kind of thing Ryan Clifton would joke about?”
“You never know with Ryan, but he swore he was telling the truth. I called my mum to check, and she said she’d heard it, too.”
“What did you do then?”
“I went back into college, and sat in one of the toilet stalls.”
“Why?”
“I think I was in shock. I cried. I didn’t want anyone to see me do it. I waited until the bathroom was empty before I came out to wash my face. After that, I went home.”
“Did you speak to anyone about Romana’s death?”
“Lots of people. It was all anyone was talking about. I mean, it was on the news. I’ve never known anyone who was murdered before.”
Priestman put her pen away. She had more questions, but she sensed that Holmby was largely telling the truth—“largely,” because no one ever told the truth, not entirely. Still, the boy hadn’t shied away from the poverty of his own behavior, and his shame did not appear counterfeit.
“Walk with me, Karl,” she said, and nodded at Uddin to suggest he should remain where he was. Uddin didn’t move. He knew what Priestman was doing: checking to see if Holmby was carrying an injury to his leg, or even his back. If he were, it would be possible for him to disguise it for short periods, but not if he walked on it for a while. Uddin kept an eye on them as they headed outside, but could as yet detect no sign of a limp from Holmby.
Uddin sat at the table, three cups before him, like a sidewalk huckster waiting for pigeons to dupe, and—in common with Priestman—wondered what Karl Holmby was hiding from them.
CHAPTER LVII
Hynes and Gackowska eventually found Ryan Clifton in Middlesbrough’s Albert Park. Tina Clifton had suggested they try there, once they’d promised not to make any trouble for her son if they did track him down. He was sitting by the lake, a pad on his knee, sketching boats. So absorbed was he in his work that he didn’t notice Gackowska approaching from his left, and didn’t become aware of Hynes until the DS’s shadow fell across him.
“Not bad,” said Hynes.
Clifton looked over his shoulder, saw who was speaking, and made as though to run, but Hynes clamped his right arm before he could rise, and held him in place.
“If you try to get away, I’ll make your life a misery,” said Hynes. “Really, I will. I’ve had lots of practice. But if you listen, and answer a few questions, I’ll let you get back to your drawing. Who knows, I might even be inclined to smooth some ruffled feathers back at Larkin-Brook, save you a truancy report.”
“Why would you do that?” said Clifton. Hynes could feel that the boy remained ready to flee at the first opportunity. He didn’t fancy trying to chase him around the park. It would be undignified. He considered cuffing him to the bench, but decided to save that as a last resort.
“Because deep down I’m a nice person. Everybody says so. Isn’t th
at right, Detective Constable?”
Gackowska had joined them now, and was standing poised in case Clifton somehow managed to break free.
“No,” she said, “they don’t.”
“All right, so I lied, but I might be prepared to make an exception for you, Ryan. How about we buy you a cup of tea? We’ve just had one, mind, but there’s always room for another, and if there isn’t, I can make room—though we don’t need to go into the details of how I might do that, not unless you really want to.”
Ryan Clifton didn’t look as though he wanted to discuss the functioning of DS Hynes’s waterworks, sensible lad.
“What do you want to talk to me about?” he asked.
Hynes’s smile faded.
“The murder of Romana Moon.”
* * *
PRIESTMAN DIDN’T GET MUCH more out of Karl Holmby, beyond confirming that he didn’t appear to be suffering from any obvious injury. Then again, they might have been mistaken in ascribing the dumping of Romana Moon’s corpse to a possible fall. Even if her killer had injured himself, he could just as easily have sprained a wrist, or busted a rib. It was all supposition for the time being.
Karl Holmby lived alone with his mother. Claire Holmby worked in a care home, making “shit money,” according to her son. Her ex-husband, Clement Holmby, had done time at H.M. Prison Northumberland on firearms charges, and time at other institutions for possession of cocaine, amphetamine, and heroin with intent to supply. He was a rotten piece of work, by all accounts, including his own son’s, but the last anyone had heard of him, he was living with a slapper in Sutton Coldfield. Karl had an older brother up in Newcastle, whom he saw occasionally, but they weren’t very close. Karl also confirmed the drift away from the company of Ryan Clifton. He had college friends now, and Ryan didn’t fit in with them—not that Karl made any great effort to introduce Ryan to the group, preferring instead to keep his new life separate from the old.
“How does Ryan feel about that?” Priestman asked.
“I don’t know. He’s okay with it, I think. We don’t talk about it much. Don’t talk much at all anymore.”
Four different answers to the question, only the last two of which might have been true. Priestman let it go.
“We’re going to have to ask your mum to corroborate what you’ve told us about your being home on the night Romana Moon was murdered. We’ll put it in the context of a general questioning of everyone who might have had contact with Romana, so your mum won’t have to know about the lies you were spreading.”
Holmby nodded, but didn’t say anything. Priestman stopped walking.
“Look at me, Karl.”
He did.
“If we find out you haven’t been honest with us, I’ll arrest you for obstructing the progress of a murder inquiry, and I’ll make sure that your academic career comes to a permanent, grinding halt. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have anything else you want to say?”
“No.”
“Okay, then. We’ll contact your mum later today. You could help us by sharing her phone number.”
Holmby recited it by heart, and Priestman added it to her notebook.
“We’ll be in touch,” she said.
Holmby took in the buildings, the campus, and his fellow students, as though with new eyes, perhaps because of how close he might be to having it taken from him.
“Do you think you’ll find whoever killed Miss Moon?” he asked.
“We’re trying.”
“A quarter of all murders in the United Kingdom remain unsolved. Did you know that?”
“I might have read it somewhere.”
“It was in one of the Sunday newspapers, a few years back. I found the figures when I was researching an essay. Forty-two out of forty-four police forces in England and Wales provided data for the survey. You know which ones didn’t?”
Priestman didn’t answer, but let him talk.
“Staffordshire and Northumbria. So your force was one of only two that didn’t release figures about their success with murder investigations. Why was that?”
“I don’t know.”
Holmby shifted his bag on his right shoulder.
“I’m sorry you’re the ones investigating Miss Moon’s death,” he said. “I think she deserves better.”
And he walked away.
* * *
THE MENTION OF ROMANA Moon seemed to have quashed any desire to run on Ryan Clifton’s part, although this didn’t cause him to make his way to Albert Park’s coffeehouse with any noticeable degree of eagerness. Hynes didn’t blame him. Unless Clifton was a complete idiot, he had probably figured out by now that his friendship with Karl Holmby had brought the police down on him. Hynes suspected that, if given the chance, Clifton would probably start out by lying in a misguided effort to protect his friend. Hynes didn’t have the time or patience to tolerate any efforts at deception. After all, there was only so much tea a man could drink. With that in mind, he left Clifton at a table under Gackowska’s watchful eye, ordered tea for three, a chunk of rocky road for Clifton—then, after a brief moment of doubt, a slice of lemon drizzle cake for himself—before setting them down on the table and announcing, “We know your pal Karl Holmby claimed to be having sex with Romana Moon. If you try to deny it, I’ll do my best to make sure you complete your education in prison. By the way, the piece of rocky road is yours. I don’t like chocolate. Never have.”
Gackowska looked at the tray.
“What about the lemon drizzle?”
“That’s mine.”
“Didn’t you get me anything?”
“I hear you’re watching your figure.”
“You’re sharing that lemon drizzle.”
Hynes’s shoulders slumped.
“Fine. I brought a knife, just in case you decided to be difficult.”
He cut the cake in two. Gackowska picked up the larger slice before Hynes could even put down the knife.
“I hope you die single,” he said.
“So do I,” said Gackowska. “I won’t have to share lemon drizzle with anyone.”
Clifton still hadn’t touched his rocky road, so Hynes pushed the plate closer to him.
“Eat up, son. You’re going to need your strength if you plan on annoying me more than you already have.”
Clifton reached for his cake.
“So,” said Hynes. “Karl Holmby and Romana Moon: do tell.”
* * *
SELLARS WAS AT HOME when the call came through to his burner phone.
He had already chosen the next girl. He’d found her on a prostitution website: young—barely out of her teens, if that; council flat, with reviews that suggested she was working without a pimp, trying to earn some extra money in the evenings. One of the punters mentioned a crying baby, which had quite put him off his stride, so he’d docked her a star. Sellars made a note of the baby, and wondered if there was a way to take both of them. Two for the price of one: he could dispose of the girl at one site, and the infant at another. He’d never contemplated killing a child before, but what kind of life would it have if its mother was already working on her back? He’d be doing the poor little mite a favor by putting it out of its misery.
Sometimes, Sellars marveled at how far he’d fallen.
But now his phone was ringing: Holmby. Maybe he’d sprinkled holy water on himself, and his ankle had miraculously healed.
“This had better be good news,” said Sellars.
But it wasn’t.
* * *
ALL CREDIT TO RYAN Clifton: being the target of police questioning hadn’t affected his appetite. He wolfed down the rocky road, crumbs and all. If the plate had been remotely edible, he’d probably have given that a try as well. In addition, any residual loyalty he might have felt toward Karl Holmby had rapidly dissipated under pressure. This was largely down to Gackowska, who—thanks to what they’d learned from Tina Clifton—pushed the right buttons when it came to exploiting the bo
y’s bitterness at his friend’s elevation to the ranks of university life. Ryan Clifton’s sense of grievance ran deep and raw, and Hynes knew that whatever affection might have remained between the two boys was likely to be destroyed by all Clifton chose to share with them that day.
Hynes felt sorry for Ryan Clifton, and his mum. It made him determined to do what he could for both of them, although the realistic part of him understood that Clifton was probably doomed. He already looked too big and old for his school uniform, and his natural belligerence bubbled barely below the surface, making it a wonder that his skin didn’t pop with rage; and while his willingness to sell his friend down the river was undeniably useful to the investigation into the killing of Romana Moon, it spoke volumes about the shallowness of his character.
“He told me he did it with her twice,” said Clifton. “Once on her couch, and then again a couple of days later, in her bed.”
“Did you believe him?” said Gackowska.
“Not at first. I told him he was full of shit, that he’d been watching too much porn on his phone.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“A few things.”
“Such as?”
Clifton discovered one last crumb that he’d missed, hiding on the underside of his plate, and wetted a finger in order to consume it.
“He had a pair of her knickers. Said she gave them to him—as a souvenir, like.”
Hynes watched a duck take off from the lake beyond the window, heading for more congenial surroundings. He knew how it felt.
“What made you think they were Romana Moon’s?” said Gackowska.
“We’d seen her bend over in class, and sometimes she had to stretch to write on the board. If you dropped a pen, you could look up her skirt. She always wore the same kind of underwear: the colors changed, but they all had a little white frill on them, like the ones Karl showed me. And—”
He stopped.
“Go on,” said Gackowska.
“They’d been worn, like.”
“Christ,” said Hynes.
“She asked,” said Clifton.
“I did,” said Gackowska, “and I appreciate your answering so honestly.” She said this without gagging, which impressed Hynes. “What else made you think Karl might be telling the truth?”
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