by Gytha Lodge
‘You’re here because we think you lied to us,’ Jonah told her.
‘I’ve told you nothing but the truth,’ she said. And yet Louise looked close to breaking. It was clear that she was hiding something from them.
‘What about when you told us you didn’t know the victim?’
Louise gave him a look that seemed genuinely confused. She glanced towards O’Malley, who gave her his warmest smile.
‘I didn’t know him,’ she said, after a beat. ‘There’s nothing untrue in that.’
‘My sergeant is going to show you a video clip taken from the entrance to a club called Blue Underground,’ Jonah said. He could see the sudden step up in tension in Louise’s body.
He turned towards the side wall, where the ceiling-mounted data projector shone its image. As a bright rectangle lit up across the wall, O’Malley rose and dimmed the lights.
The CCTV footage began, a moving version of what Jonah had seen once before, but just as silent. Just as grey-scaled. Just as stark.
Louise Reakes appeared, with the fixed gaze and wavering gait of the very drunk.
‘This is you leaving Blue Underground at just before one twelve a.m.,’ O’Malley said, his voice still affable. It jarred with the starkness of the image.
Even in the dim light it was obvious that this had hit Louise hard.
‘Oh my God, I’m …’ She gave Jonah a slightly desperate look. ‘I don’t remember leaving the house. She – we must have decided to go out. I’m so sorry …’
Jonah looked back at the screen, and asked O’Malley to rewind it and play it again.
‘I can’t see any sign of April Dumont in this image.’
There was a brief silence, and then Louise said, ‘No.’
‘When did April go home?’
‘I don’t know,’ Louise said, unsteadily. ‘I don’t remember any of it. I thought I’d stayed at home. Like I told you.’
O’Malley paused the image as Louise was about to vanish off screen, and they both waited, looking at Louise instead of the projection.
‘Maybe I felt too drunk, and left,’ she said. ‘Or … I guess she could have been … with a guy.’
Neither Jonah nor O’Malley said anything.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking at the screen and then back at them. She squeezed her hands together, and Jonah could see that they were shaking. ‘But I really wasn’t trying to hide anything. And it doesn’t mean anything. I wasn’t out with some gang or with the victim or anything.’
O’Malley and Jonah remained silent, but O’Malley pressed the play button.
There was a short pause, while all that showed on-screen was the bouncer shuffling closer to the desk to say something to the woman who was manning it. All they could see of the latter was the top of her head, her parting a bright, white line in her dark hair.
And then another figure appeared. Taller than the bouncer, and slightly wider across the shoulder, though he was definitely a great deal slimmer around the waist. He slid his feet a little, a sign of drunkenness perhaps less severe than Louise’s.
When Jonah glanced at Louise, she looked dumbstruck. Horrified.
‘What …?’
‘This is Alex Plaskitt leaving at just after one thirteen. He was only a minute and a half behind you.’
There was absolute silence as O’Malley let the video play for a short while longer, and then paused it once again.
Louise eventually turned towards Jonah. ‘But I didn’t know him.’ She put one of her shaking hands flat out on the table between them. ‘When I saw him in – the garden, I didn’t recognise him. I can’t have met him. Please believe me.’
‘But you claim not to remember major details of the night,’ O’Malley said. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because I’d surely have felt some … hint of recognition,’ she said, her eyes very wide.
‘You didn’t talk to him earlier in the evening?’ O’Malley went on.
‘Please listen to me.’ Louise sounded close to crying, but she took a deep breath and went on. ‘It’s the world’s worst coincidence, him being there and us being there too. But I promise you, I didn’t know him.’
‘So please enlighten us as to how he ended up dead in your front garden,’ Jonah said, his voice dripping with acid.
‘I don’t know,’ Louise said, with something between frustration and earnestness. ‘It’s so fucking mad, and – and horrible.’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe … maybe he followed me for some reason. Maybe he was attacked outside the club, and he stumbled after me. I don’t know if that’s even possible, but I’m telling you I don’t remember him at all.’ She balled her hands into fists. ‘April will tell you. She’ll remember more.’
‘You left without her,’ Jonah reminded her. ‘You could well have met up with Alex Plaskitt without her knowing.’
‘But I’m not like that,’ Louise said, loudly. She suddenly sat back, put her hands up to her head and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear on each side before folding her hands together in front of her. Jonah wasn’t sure if it might be calculated, but the effect was somehow more respectable. The tucked-back hair and the folded hands. Age-old signals of self-containment. Of virtue. ‘I’m a married woman, and I don’t go flirting with men I don’t know.’
Jonah considered this in the light of what she had said about her husband. About his ability to make everything her fault. He thought that a married woman who felt criticised might well try to flirt. And the flip side was that Niall Reakes might have had reason not to trust his wife.
Louise was holding his gaze, that earnestness still there. Believe me, she was saying silently. You have to believe me.
Jonah broke the gaze. He looked towards the wall, which still showed the last frame of the projected video.
‘Detective Sergeant O’Malley is now going to show you an image. I’d like to know if you recognise this knife.’
Louise’s head dropped in exasperation. But she looked at the screen, where O’Malley had put up a photo of the bloodied knife with its elaborate ornamental handle.
‘No,’ Louise said, firmly. ‘I don’t. Except from when I saw it next to … to Alex, on the ground.’ And then she shuddered and looked away.
‘It’s fairly distinctive,’ Jonah said.
‘I can see that,’ Louise said, slightly more quietly, her gaze on the table. ‘And that makes me one hundred per cent certain that I’d never seen it before.’ She gave a long breath out, and then lifted her chin a little. ‘Look, I want to help you. I want to know who killed him. It was right – right where I live. I want them to be caught.’ Her jaw trembled slightly. ‘But I can’t, because it wasn’t me. I don’t know him, and I’m sorry that I can’t help.’
Jonah watched her. Read her expression, and wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing there.
Phoebe Plaskitt’s house, out in much snowier Winchester, was named The Dovecote. It had clearly started out as its name implied, before someone had decided to turn it into a dwelling. As a result, it had been extended in a style that was basically in keeping but which had left it looking off-centre. The cote itself was to the far right, with the front door at the other end.
The young woman who opened the door to them was probably twenty-five, Hanson thought. She was a lot shorter than Alex, and lacked his muscle. But the cheekbones, eyebrows and chin were almost identical to their victim’s.
‘I’m DS Lightman,’ Ben said. ‘And this is DC Hanson. I wonder if we could come in?’
The young woman seemed dazed, though they knew she’d been expecting them. The raw redness of the skin under her eyes looked like a sign of recent crying. Perhaps someone in Alex’s family had cared about him.
Phoebe nodded slowly and backed away. She tucked her hands into the ends of her overlong cardigan sleeves as she waited for them to enter and then shut the door behind them.
‘Do you need tea? Anything?’
‘I’m OK, thanks,’ Hanson said, and Ben shook his head too. �
�We stopped off on the way.’
‘Sitting room, then,’ Phoebe said.
‘Are your parents coping all right?’ Hanson asked, as they were led along the varnished wooden floor to one end of the house. It was hopefully an easier question to answer than one about Phoebe’s own grief.
‘I think so,’ Alex’s sister said, pausing very briefly with her hand on the last door. She turned the handle and opened it, letting them into a bright room that had a view of the garden through tall windows. It was all pale colours and long, low sofas. All of it looked, Hanson thought, expensive.
There were a few photos scattered around. Hanson’s eye was caught by a formal family portrait of the Plaskitt family propped up on a bookshelf. It was probably close on twenty years old. Alex was recognisable even as a boy in trousers, shirt and tie. He looked the perfect little heir. Phoebe was starchily dressed and probably somewhere between four and six.
Of particular interest to Hanson was the vision of Alex’s father in what must have been his mid-thirties. He looked so very like Alex looked in his training videos, except with all the warmth taken away. He was unsmiling, and the hand resting on his wife’s shoulder looked heavy.
The wife was very pretty, Hanson thought. Dark-haired and brown-eyed, with skin a lot more tanned than her husband’s. Perhaps of European heritage.
Hanson dragged herself away from the photo and found a seat. Phoebe looked even smaller as she folded herself into an armchair. She must have been a good foot shorter than her brother.
Lightman began as soon as they were seated. ‘We’d really like to know what Alex was like.’
‘Well …’ Phoebe’s eyes moved sideways and it was clear that she was trying not to cry. ‘He was … very kind. Very patient. Hugely into sports, but always … a great sportsman.’
‘So not particularly competitive?’ Hanson said.
‘He … no,’ Phoebe said. ‘Well … he was fairly competitive. He wanted to be good, and he was very driven to improve himself.’ Her mouth twisted slightly. ‘When Alex was very young, he was a bit of a mummy’s boy. At least that’s what Daddy used to think. Sport became Alex’s way of proving himself to him. So he’s always been quite … fierce about it.’
‘Did they end up bonding, then?’ Lightman asked. ‘Your father and Alex?’
Phoebe shrugged. ‘I suppose so. They were quite close for a few years. But Daddy’s struggled with … a few things.’ She shrugged. ‘I wish he could get over it all, but I don’t think he’s programmed that way.’
‘With Alex’s sexuality?’ Lightman queried gently.
‘Yes, and … some of the boys he’s fallen for.’
‘Like his husband, you mean?’ Hanson asked.
Phoebe grimaced, and looked down at her sleeves. ‘I think he was the last straw, really. A very unmanly Muslim. The last in a long line of people Daddy felt to be inappropriate … He kept asking him why he hadn’t settled for any of the women he’d dated. Why he couldn’t try harder to make things work with someone female.’
‘So Alex had dated women, too?’
‘Not for any length of time,’ Phoebe replied. ‘The only people he’d ever loved were men.’
‘How did you feel about Issa?’
Phoebe looked slightly surprised. ‘Totally different. I was relieved. Issa isn’t drugged up or violent or anything.’
Lightman glanced over at Hanson, clearly as interested in this as she was. ‘Alex had violent ex-boyfriends?’
‘Not violent like hurting anyone,’ Phoebe said, quickly. ‘Not murderous. And only the one, really. Most of them were just no-hopers. But at school he fell for a troublemaker called Danny, who was – who was sweet, really, but riddled with issues. He would do destructive things because he was unhappy. He took a lot of drugs, and he sort of took Alex with him. They got into constant trouble, and Alex and Daddy really fell out.’
It was surprising, Hanson thought, that Phoebe was willing to talk so openly about all of this. Particularly with such an emotionally closed-off father.
‘Has Alex been in contact with this Danny recently?’ she asked.
‘Oh no, Danny’s – Danny died.’ She looked at Hanson with an expression that seemed genuinely regretful. ‘He overdosed while they were at uni. It was pretty shit for Alex. Maybe it was good for him, in the long run, but it was horrendous too.’ She shook her head. ‘Poor Danny.’
Hanson nodded, feeling a dip in her spirits at the closing off of this obvious line of enquiry. ‘Did Alex and Danny have any mutual friends who might be on the scene?’
Phoebe thought for a moment, and then shook her head again. ‘Alex pretty much started over after Danny’s death. It broke him, and then he had to put himself back together. He stopped seeing that whole crowd, found a new group, and ultimately met Issa. He’s been a lot healthier and happier since.’ Phoebe gave a small, humourless smile. ‘My parents don’t know that we still see each other. Saw each other. He messaged me sometimes, too.’
‘It’s OK, we’re not about to tell them,’ Lightman said, smiling. ‘Have any of his recent messages contained anything strange?’
‘No,’ Phoebe said, definitely, and then asked, ‘Was it not – random, then? That’s where all this is going, isn’t it? You think someone singled him out. Someone he knew.’
‘I’m afraid we have no theories as yet,’ Lightman said, gently. ‘We need to cover everything.’
Alex’s sister took a long breath in and then breathed it out. ‘OK. I don’t know much. He just sent occasional updates. We last talked on the phone a couple of weeks ago …’ There was a pause, as Alex’s sister once again tried to swallow down rising tears. ‘He seemed – fine. Normal. Whatever happened wasn’t – I don’t think he was in any weird trouble.’
‘And he didn’t mention meeting up with anyone new?’ Hanson asked, thinking of Louise Reakes. That she had been at the nightclub, and might be hiding the fact that she knew Alex. ‘A female friend?’
Phoebe focused on her. ‘He’s never really had female friends.’ She shrugged. ‘I know it flies in the face of the stereotype, but he’s always been more comfortable around other men. I’m the one exception, really.’ Her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘When you say “friend”, are you …? You think he was seeing someone? A woman?’
‘We really don’t know,’ Hanson admitted. ‘We’re just trying to work out who the people at the club with him were, and if there were any connections.’
‘Well, I don’t think he was having an affair, if that’s what you mean,’ Phoebe said. ‘He loves Issa.’
‘Are you close to Issa, too?’ Ben asked.
There was a brief pause, and Phoebe said, ‘We’re all right. We used to be closer, but then we argued. Issa wanted Alex to do less social media stuff and I told him to stop interfering.’
Hanson sat forwards slightly. Issa had completely failed to mention Alex’s sister. Could this be the reason? ‘He doesn’t like him doing it?’ she asked.
‘No, not after the trolling started.’ Phoebe pulled a face. ‘It’s been predictably awful for both of them. Alex is open about having a husband. He’s put clips of Issa on there, too. Some people are totally hideous. I’m sure you know this. But anyway, Issa got to the point where he couldn’t stand seeing himself and his husband abused and threatened, and he told Alex to stop. Which really upset him. It’s his job, and the trolls are in the vast minority.’
‘Which you thought too?’ Ben asked, quietly.
‘Yes,’ Phoebe said. ‘He – Issa – came round and tried to tell me I had to weigh in on his side. I told him I wouldn’t, because it would damage Alex’s business. So he got angry and read out some of the comments, and said I was heartless when I wouldn’t budge. I thought he’d get over it, but he’s stayed angry with me.’
‘Do you think any of those trolls could have really wanted to harm your brother?’ Hanson asked.
Phoebe gave her a bleak look. ‘I didn’t think so. And I don’t really … I mean, it’s just people
with no lives. Nothing better to do. They do it online because they’re too cowardly to do it for real, don’t they? I read about it.’
‘That’s generally true,’ Hanson agreed. ‘But we obviously need to check every possibility.’
Phoebe looked away, her face screwing up. ‘God. How much will – will he hate me, if it’s – if it was one of them who killed him and I could have stopped it?’
12
Louise
It sometimes surprises me, looking back, that we ever made it to our wedding day. There was so much resentment building, and so little trust.
Though, of course, that isn’t to say that there weren’t good patches. After those shaky weeks where you looked at me as if I was some kind of criminal, things gradually returned to an easier state, if not to a blissful one.
There was a good month where we managed to talk more about wedding plans than suspicions. But I can remember, clearly, how hard I tried to suffocate all the rising doubts. The number of times I turned away from you with a feeling of desolation.
So many people told me how happy I looked in the weeks before our wedding. I suppose I must have done a good job of pretending. As time went on, I even started to believe the facade. At the dinner with our families the night before, when you kept putting your arm round me and kissing me, I remember clearly thinking that everything was perfect, and would be wonderful from then on.
And the day itself, which is a little hazier in my memory, seemed to be a long-awaited prize. Some kind of confirmation that you did love me and hadn’t got engaged to piss your ex-wife off. I felt fierce love for you. Pride, too. You were so charming and gentle with my friends. And I think I actually loved you still more when I saw your obvious embarrassment in your very ordinary family, and the way you’d schemed to keep them away from your middle-class friends. I saw it all through a haze of adoration, where every part of you now belonged to me.