by Alison James
‘Your instincts, ma’am.’
‘Precisely.’
Brading scrunched up his eyes. ‘Okay,’ he said, exhaling hard. ‘Just five minutes. But I know nothing about it. And I didn’t give you the key.’
He handed her the key, and for the first time ever she saw him smile.
* * *
Matt Wyburgh was sitting on the edge of the bench that also served as a bed, dressed in prison sweats and shoes with the laces removed. He hadn’t shaved in days, and there were magenta circles underneath his eyes. He raised his head when Rachel came into the cell, but his expression remained blank. He was clearly too exhausted to experience an emotion as piquant as curiosity.
Rachel sat down next to him on the vinyl mattress and extended a hand, which he did not shake. ‘Hi, Matt. I’m Detective Inspector Prince.’
The meaning of his look was clear: I don’t care if you’re Santa Claus.
She knew she had to employ extreme caution in what she said now. If she told him that she believed he was innocent, and that she might have evidence that someone else killed Phoebe Stiles – if she even implied it – the ramifications would be huge, catastrophic even. His lawyers could claim the LAPD had at best been incompetent and, at worst, framed Wyburgh. And the fact that she was a British police officer who currently had no jurisdiction carried international implications. So she had to be very, very careful.
He wouldn’t make eye contact, but she plunged on regardless. ‘I’m from the police in London, here to help the LAPD because Phoebe Stiles was a UK citizen.’
He did not look up, or react to the sound of Phoebe’s name.
‘I’d like you to tell me what you know, or remember, about what happened around the twentieth of January.’
‘I’ve been through it over and over. I’ve made a statement.’
‘Please, Matt. What do you think happened?’
The use of his first name caught his attention.
‘Is this some kind of trick? Because I’m pleading not guilty? You guys hoping I’m going to say something to incriminate myself?’
There was a glimpse of anger amid the outright weariness.
‘Look, I’m not writing this down, and I’m not recording it.’
‘You could be wearing a wire.’
Rachel smiled slightly, stood up and lifted her T-shirt, high enough to reveal all of her bra. She turned slightly so he could see the back view. Wyburgh flushed slightly, but did not avert his gaze.
‘Could be in your pants.’
She unzipped her trousers and lowered them as far as decency would permit, then pulled up the legs to show there was nothing attached to her calves. ‘Feel free to pat me down if you like.’
‘No, it’s okay.’
He relaxed fractionally. Rachel sat down again and they faced each other.
‘Just tell me anything that comes to mind, in your own words. That’s all I want.’
‘I didn’t kill her.’
I know, she wanted to say, I know you didn’t.
‘How did you and Phoebe meet?’
‘In the Furnace. It’s a club in West Hollywood.’
‘And how did you feel about her?’
‘I really liked her, you know, she was great. She had that weird British accent; I thought it was cute.’ He shrugged. ‘She was fun to be around.’
‘Did you love her?’
‘Man…’ Wyburgh leaned back against the wall and ran his hands over his face. ‘Not really. I mean, I loved hanging out with her and stuff, but not like, love love.’
‘You weren’t in love with her?’
‘No. Fuck’s sake, we’d only known each other a few weeks. That’s why this is all so fucked up.’
‘So you weren’t heartbroken when she ended it?’
‘No, man! I mean, sure, it seemed kind of odd the way she went dark on me like that. I wanted to talk to her, but it was really just to check she was okay. She was supposed to be staying with me when she rented out her apartment, and as far as I knew she didn’t have any place else to go. She didn’t really know anyone in LA. That’s why I went over there when she wasn’t answering the phone.’
‘And the weapon they found in your apartment?’
‘They’re saying it was a marble doorstop from the hallway of her apartment. I’d never seen the fucking thing before, but they said it was in the corner of my garage, propped against the wall.’
‘You didn’t see it there?’
‘I only know last time I went in the garage it wasn’t there. I know that for a fact.’
‘And when was that?’
‘Just before I went to Reno. I was putting my surfboard away.’
‘So how could it have got there? Did anyone else have keys?’
‘My folks. And I had a set cut for Phoebe because she was staying over quite a lot and it just made things easier, you know?’ There was the ghost of a smile. ‘Put them on a funky little keyring with a P on it. I told the cops that, but they said the keys weren’t found at her apartment. They disappeared.’
‘So the doorstop definitely wasn’t there before your Reno trip?’
‘For one thousand per cent sure. Whoever put it there must have known I’d be away.’
‘You’re saying it was planted?’
Wyburgh rolled his eyes wearily. ‘Come on, Detective, do I really seem that dumb? I go to my girlfriend’s place, hit her over the head with something from her own apartment, then I take it back to my place, covered in her blood, and leave it against the wall of the garage in full view, blood and all? Nobody would do that unless they were completely stupid, or completely insane.’
His look challenged her. She couldn’t fault his logic. She had known criminals rely on logic to stand up their stories many times, but this was different. She believed him; it was as simple as that. The casual sexual attraction he described did not fit with a calculated brutal slaughter, and he was right: the weapon would either have been left at the scene or tossed.
‘Indeed,’ she said, trying to keep her tone neutral. Fingerprints, she was thinking. Tell me about fingerprints. She didn’t dare ask, because he would be assuming she knew about that detail already.
‘They didn’t find a single fingerprint, but the cops just said I must have wiped them. Like I’d wipe off every single print but somehow leave all the blood right there. Makes no fucking sense.’
I know, Rachel wanted to say. I agree. Mustering her neutrality, instead she said calmly. ‘Your defence lawyers will no doubt be looking into all of that.’ She stood up and extended her hand. ‘Good luck. I mean it.’
Chapter Sixteen
Rachel put on a single pair of gloves. There was little point in double-gloving at this stage: the items had all been handled by multiple un-gloved hands. She dropped the Tangier Nights lipstick, the red dress and the shoes into separate evidence bags, sealed them and labelled them with Phoebe’s full name, date of birth and the linked LAPD case number. Then she dialled Rob McConnell’s cell phone number.
He picked up straight away. There were voices in the background which became fainter as he adjusted his position.
‘Two minutes.’ He hung up.
When he called back, the background noise was gone. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Nice surprise on a Saturday.’
‘Sorry to call at the weekend… I have some stuff to courier to you. Real stuff, not digital stuff. Okay to send it to you at National Central Bureau?
‘Are you still in Los Angeles?’
‘Yes, but not for long. Leaving tomorrow morning.’
‘One second, let me just check something.’
The line was muted for a couple of minutes. When Rob came back he asked, ‘What’s the address where you’re staying?’
She gave him the street address of the Ventana Vista.
‘Cool. Someone will be there to collect the items in a few hours.’
‘Okay.’ Rachel was thrown by this. ‘Well, I guess I can put everything else in an email.’
‘Great. Listen, I have to run.’
And he was gone.
* * *
This was probably her last chance to use the motel pool, and she was going to make it count. For the first time since she arrived, she was not a solitary user. There were a couple of people swimming, and several more on loungers. Rachel swam forty lengths and lay in the sun for half an hour, topping up what was now quite a respectable tan.
She would miss this: but she needed to get back. There was Joe, for a start. And Brickall had been less communicative than usual. Her sixth sense and years of experience of his moods told her something was troubling him. It was time to get back to her real life.
As she unlocked the door to her room, heading to take a shower, her phone rang.
‘Hi, is that Detective Prince?’ It was an unfamiliar voice; female, middle-aged bordering on elderly.
‘It is. Who am I speaking to?’
‘Renée Foster. Blair Lundgren gave me your number.’
‘Blair Lundgren? I’m sorry—’
‘He lives here. At Canton Place apartments. We both do.’
Ah, Phoebe’s neighbour. Mr Beardy.
‘We were chatting by the garbage chute, and when I told him I’d seen her, he gave me your card.’
‘You saw her?’
‘The girl from apartment 510. The English girl.’
Rachel dropped her towel and grabbed her notebook and pen. ‘When was this?’
‘About a week ago, I believe. I was at Valley Plaza with my daughter and I saw her outside the pharmacy. I recognised her from her baseball cap, and the blonde hair. It was the Padres one she always wore around the building. You noticed it because everyone wears Dodgers caps here. The Padres are San Diego. I said to my daughter, “That’s the English girl who’s living in Canton Place.”’
San Diego. Rachel’s stomach did a little flip.
‘And you’re sure this was around a week ago?’
‘Yes, certain, because we were shopping for my grandson’s birthday party, and his birthday’s February 23rd.’
It was now February 28th. Ten days since Phoebe’s body was found, many weeks since she was killed.
‘I phoned my daughter just now, and told her I was going to speak to the police. She said she thought it was February 21st, but that the CCTV at the mall would be able to confirm it right away. They have cameras everywhere.’
‘I’ll phone the shopping mall and ask them if they can assist. Thank you Renée, that’s very helpful.’
‘They’re saying she died, but that can’t be right, can it? She’s not dead. We definitely saw her.’
‘I’ll look into it.’
Still in her damp bikini, Rachel googled the office number for the Valley Plaza Shopping Centre. There was no reply. After five minutes more of online searching and clicking, she found a customer service number, which was answered on the third attempt by a bored sounding clerk.
‘Office opening hours are Monday to Friday, nine thirty to five thirty.’
‘It’s Saturday: the stores are still open. There must be security guards there right now?’
‘Mmmm hmmm.’
‘Well I need to speak to their supervisor.’
She was given an alternative phone number, which went straight to voicemail. ‘You’re through to Secure Group at the Valley Plaza. There’s nobody here to take your call, but please leave your message after the tone.’
Rachel hung up, exasperated. The chances of anyone calling back seemed slight, and even if they did, unless she could view in person whatever footage they still had, this would not progress the lead. She considered driving to the mall. It was only four o’clock; there was still time. But the chances of finding someone authorised to identify the correct CCTV footage and show it to her seemed vanishingly small. They would almost certainly tell her to come back on Monday. She picked up her laptop and started trying to compile everything she knew into an email to Rob, but her brain felt as though it was about to explode.
Stop. You need to stop, she told herself. It’s time to take a step back.
* * *
After a shower, and with the warmth of the day receding, she drove to the drugstore to pick up some supper, treating herself to a bottle of chardonnay to mark the fact that this was her last night in North Hollywood. She would have preferred to walk there and back to help unscramble her thoughts, but the courier still had not arrived to collect the evidence bags, and she didn’t want to increase the odds of the service arriving while she was out. At six o’clock there was still no courier. Rachel checked with reception, but was assured nobody had asked for her. Seven o’clock: still nothing. She tried to phone Rob, but her call went straight to voicemail. At seven forty-five there was a knock at her door. She grabbed the evidence bags and opened it.
Rob McConnell was standing there, a flight bag slung over his shoulder.
Rachel looked him up and down. ‘What the fuck?’
He grinned. ‘Thought I’d pick up those exhibits in person.’
‘From Washington DC?! That’s on the other side of the country. Are you insane?’
‘You going to ask me in?’
She let him pass her. Instantly the room felt too small, too shabby for his large, glowing presence. She was hyper-aware of the gleam of the golden hairs on his tanned forearms, the chrome of his expensive pilot’s watch, the flash of his even white teeth. She also felt acutely conscious of her make-up-free face and sloppy jogging bottoms, the half-eaten salad on the desk, the open suitcase she was in the process of packing. She made a token attempt at tidying away the clothes on the bed, but Rob held up a hand.
‘Hey, don’t worry, I booked a room down the hall. I have my own space to mess up.’
‘You’re staying here?’
‘I was actually at Dulles when you phoned. I’m on my way to Seattle to meet with the FBI office there and talk about drug trafficking. Heroin from Mexico: the usual. So I was flying west anyway.’
‘This is the scenic route, is it?’
‘Kind of. I managed to change my flight last minute, and book one from here to Seattle in the morning.’
He turned his light blue-grey eyes to meet Rachel’s. She flushed slightly. Stop acting like a clueless schoolgirl.
‘I see.’ She could sense his need for her to say more. ‘Sorry, I’m just trying to take this all in. It’s a bit like walking into a darkened room and all your friends leaping out and shouting “Surprise!”’
Rob laughed. ‘I get it. Why don’t I go and dump my stuff and we can catch up later?’
‘Meet me by the pool,’ Rachel told him. ‘I have wine.’ She brandished the half empty bottle of Chardonnay.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Rob was waiting for her on the pool terrace. She was carrying the wine and two plastic cups and had exchanged her sweats for jeans. She was also wearing the minimum amount of make-up that could be applied without looking as though you had applied make-up. A complex balancing act that a man would fail to recognise. This thought was making her smile as she sat down beside him.
‘So – am I forgiven for the surprise party?’ he asked, pouring them both wine.
‘Absolutely. I’m actually very glad to have you here,’ she confided. ‘To have someone to discuss the case with,’ she added quickly.
They moved to the edge of the pool and sat with their feet dangling in the cooling water, while Rachel worked her way through every angle of her investigation. The list was a long one: the trip to San Francisco and the discovery that the renter of both dead girls’ properties used the same profile picture, the fact that both profiles were fake, her interviews with Phoebe’s agent, neighbours and accused boyfriend, the forensic reports on both apartments, the visit to the production crew, the analysis that proved the girl in the shoot was not actually Phoebe, her visit to San Diego to find out more about Tiffany Kovak. Then she voiced her doubts about the evidence the LAPD had on Matt Wyburgh.
‘You’ve done all of this in a week, alo
ne? For real?’ Rob stood up and refilled their plastic cups, then sat down beside her again.
‘I have.’
‘That’s seriously impressive: you’re like some kind of machine. Little Miss Tenacity.’
‘Think how much I could have achieved if there were a whole team on this, and not just me. God!’ She slapped her hands down on the pool edge to emphasise her frustration. ‘I’ve got to walk away now and there are so many more questions.’
‘What can I do to help?’
‘For starters, can you see if the dress, the shoes and the lipstick give us anything?’
‘Of course. I’ll send them off to CODIS. That will tell us if any DNA matches samples on existing crime databases… their reach is nationwide. And we’ll cross-check the items with each other.’
‘Can you get someone to check footage from the shopping mall where Phoebe was seen? Except obviously it can’t have been Phoebe.’
‘Sure. Don’t know how long it will take, but I’ll try.”
‘And maybe the CCTV images of Tiffany Kovak’s car…’
‘Yes ma’am.’ He put down his cup of wine and made a mock salute.
‘It’s okay, I’m going to email everything I have to you, you don’t have to try and memorise it.’
‘You really care about what you do, don’t you?’ Rob turned to face her, placing his hand lightly on her arm. Rachel nodded.
‘Yep. It’s pretty much all I do care about.’
He did a double take. ‘Really? No significant other, no kids?’
Rachel hesitated. ‘I have an eighteen-year-old son. I care about him, obviously. But he doesn’t live with me.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be: we still have a great relationship, and he’s going to university soon anyway. Actually, he’s never lived with me: I gave him up for adoption.’