Good Girls Don't Die

by Isabelle Grey

Grace knew that no purchase of Fire’n’Ice had shown up in Matt’s debit or credit card history, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t paid cash.

  ‘What?’ Matt asked. ‘No. Look, the night I went home with Polly, there was this guy –’

  ‘Pawel Zawodny, her landlord. You told us.’

  ‘No, not that. That was the next morning. I’m talking about the night before, when we hooked up.’

  ‘We’d like to talk first about the following night. Friday, the night Polly disappeared.’

  ‘Nothing happened! I spoke to her as I was leaving. We were both cool with the way things were. I left before her. I was with friends. They’ll tell you.’

  Duncan took names and contact details for Matt’s friends before resuming his questioning. ‘And where did you go then?’

  ‘I don’t remember. Home, probably.’

  ‘Very well. So what was it you wanted to tell us about the previous night? That would be Thursday.’

  Matt sagged with relief. ‘I’d completely forgotten. Polly asked some guy she knew for a lift home. He refused and she really mouthed off at him.’

  ‘Do you know who it was?’

  Matt shook his head. Grace watched him struggle to retrieve a clear memory, to picture the scene. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t pay much attention. And I’d had a fair bit to drink. He seemed familiar, but God knows where from.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  Matt blew out some air. ‘Young, white, just a guy.’

  ‘A student?’ suggested Duncan.

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Can you remember if Polly used a name?’

  Again, Matt thought hard. Suddenly Danny Tooley jumped into Grace’s mind. Danny had said he lived in Wivenhoe, so might Polly have asked him for a lift? Did he own a car? She dimly recalled that, as she’d waited for the kettle to boil at five o’clock that morning, she’d had the impression that some vital idea had come to her just before she’d fallen asleep. What was it? Something to do with Danny and Twitter? No, that wasn’t it. She’d have to work back to it later.

  She leaned forward to the microphone that fed into Duncan’s earpiece. ‘Ask if he could’ve seen the man anywhere on campus.’

  Duncan relayed the question without any indication that he’d been fed it. But Matt was shaking his head. ‘Maybe,’ he replied. ‘I’ve no idea. Sorry. She got stroppy with him, I do remember that. I was surprised, didn’t expect her to talk like that.’

  ‘Didn’t stop you going home with her,’ Keith muttered to himself. Grace liked his spikiness, and speculated that perhaps he had a daughter of his own at university.

  ‘And you’re sure it wasn’t her landlord?’ asked Lance, betraying just a little too much interest, causing Keith to tsk-tsk in disapproval.

  Matt once more shook his head. ‘No. Well, I never really saw his face. It was only that Polly said it was him, leering through the bedroom door the next morning. But no, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t him.’

  ‘So how did you get back to Polly’s place on Thursday night?’ Lance asked.

  ‘Took a cab.’

  ‘And the other nights you’ve been at the Blue Bar, how do you get home?’

  ‘Walk, usually. It’s not far.’

  ‘So you don’t drive?’ asked Lance, with a faint and deliberate trace of mockery.

  Matt coloured. ‘No.’

  ‘Never passed your test?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How many times did you fail it?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘You’ve held a provisional licence. You can drive?’

  ‘I’m dyspraxic,’ Matt admitted resentfully.

  ‘Have you ever driven without a licence?’

  ‘No!’

  Lance held Matt’s indignant gaze but sat back, letting Duncan resume the lead. ‘Let’s move on to Rachel Moston. She was one of your students, is that correct?’

  ‘She was in my third-year seminar group, yes.’ He glanced involuntarily at his solicitor, who, Grace guessed, had probably coached him. ‘I’m really sorry to hear that she’s dead.’

  ‘How often did you see her?’ continued Duncan.

  ‘It was a weekly seminar. She was a hard worker, a promising student.’

  ‘Did you ever see her outside of class?’

  ‘No. Why would I?’

  ‘Did you ever sleep with her?’

  ‘No! I don’t sleep with my students.’

  ‘May I remind you, Dr Beeston, that you’re under caution and this interview is being recorded.’

  The solicitor leaned closer and whispered something in Matt’s ear. He reddened. ‘I never saw Rachel outside of my teaching duties,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘You never met her at the Blue Bar?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never got drunk with her?

  ‘No!’

  ‘But you do socialise with students you teach?’

  ‘Socialise occasionally, maybe, but I keep proper boundaries.’

  Duncan nodded and, opening his laptop, frowned at the screen as he tapped at the keys, allowing Matt to watch in frustrated silence.

  ‘They must occasionally want to hang out with you, though, right?’ asked Lance. ‘Have a bit of a flirt with the teacher?’

  Matt, failing to respond to Lance’s bantering tone, looked scared as Duncan pushed the computer around so both he and his solicitor could see the screen.

  ‘For the record, I’m showing Dr Beeston a Facebook page with a photograph of him with Emma Hodges,’ said Duncan. ‘You taught her last year, is that correct?’

  Matt looked anxious. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you confirm that’s you in the photograph?’

  Grace had already seen the image. Duncan had spent much of the night trawling through the unrestricted social media sites of several of Matt’s past and present students. His reward had been to come across a group of photographs taken at a party in what appeared to be someone’s parental home. The image he was now showing the young lecturer – and several others like it – showed a flushed, laughing Matt sprawled on an upholstered armchair, a wine glass in one hand and the other cupping the breast of the giggling girl who sat on his lap.

  ‘Maybe you’d like to reconsider your earlier answer, Dr Beeston.’

  Matt hung his head while his solicitor whispered in his ear. Eventually he nodded and looked Duncan in the eye. ‘It was unwise of me to accept a party invitation in London, and I had a little too much to drink.’

  ‘How many times did you sleep with Emma Hodges while you were teaching her?’

  When Matt still hesitated, Duncan sighed deeply. ‘We can easily get a statement from Emma if we have to.’

  ‘Shit!’ Matt rubbed his face and, feeling his stubble, also suddenly seemed to take note again of the ludicrous clothes he was wearing.

  Duncan waited, and Grace watched Matt’s face as it finally sank in how dangerously off course this was veering. She saw the panic come into his eyes. ‘Please,’ he began. ‘I just –’

  Duncan held up a hand, cutting him short. ‘You’ll have an opportunity to explain in a moment. First, I want to put an earlier question to you again. Which nights this past week did you go to the Blue Bar?’

  Matt looked shamefaced. ‘Friday and Wednesday.’

  ‘Why did you lie to us earlier?’

  ‘I didn’t lie! I just didn’t want the hassle. Look, I told you right from the start that I had a one-night stand with Polly Sinclair, but the rest – I’m very sorry about Rachel, but her death has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘But you did see Polly Sinclair at the Blue Bar the night she disappeared, and you also saw Rachel Moston there on Wednesday night?’

  ‘No!’ Matt looked terrified. ‘No, I never saw Rachel!’

  ‘So why did you lie about which nights you were there?’

  ‘I didn’t lie. I just didn’t want to get involved!’

  Duncan and Lance observed him calmly, waiting for him to fill the silen
ce.

  ‘It was an error of judgement. I admit that. But, honestly, you have to believe me,’ Matt pleaded. ‘I never saw Rachel. Ask the people I was with.’

  ‘We will.’

  In the privacy of the viewing room, Grace turned to Keith. ‘It is possible he never saw her.’

  ‘Really?’ Keith looked sceptical.

  ‘The Blue Bar was pretty packed that night,’ she told him. ‘I was there, and I never caught sight of him. They could easily both have been there yet never bumped into one another.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Keith’s eyes never left the screen.

  ‘What time did you leave the bar that night?’ Duncan asked.

  ‘Not that late. Half-eleven, maybe.’

  ‘And where did you go?’

  ‘Home!’

  ‘Time to rattle his cage,’ Keith instructed Grace. They’d agreed in advance they might use this tactic, and she immediately left the room, walked along the corridor to where a red light showed ‘interview in progress’ and knocked on the door. When Lance opened it, they stood whispering together. While Lance nodded, miming a pantomime of receiving new and serious information, she stared unsmilingly over his shoulder at Matt. As soon as Lance closed the door on her, she scooted back to Keith and the monitor screen.

  ‘Is there anything else you’d like to tell us, Matt?’ Duncan was asking, leaving a long and deliberate pause during which Matt’s mind clearly scrambled to second-guess their thinking. ‘It’ll go much better for you if you tell us everything,’ the detective continued. ‘And tell us the truth. The more you keep changing your story, the more lies you tell, the harder it’ll be later in court to convince a jury that you’re an honest man.’

  ‘Do you have evidence to charge my client?’ the solicitor asked sharply, but Duncan ignored him.

  ‘Is there anything more you want to say?’

  ‘I promise you I don’t have a clue where Polly is. You have to believe me. And I swear I never saw Rachel at the Blue Bar. The place was heaving. I had no idea she was there.’

  ‘So why did you lie to us?’

  ‘I was afraid my job would be on the line,’ admitted Matt. ‘That it would come out that I’d crossed a line with one or two of the women I was teaching.’

  Keith snorted in contempt.

  ‘But not with Rachel. I know I’m not supposed to take liberties, and OK, it was stupid to ignore university regulations, but it’s not like I’m twice their age or anything, and they can’t expect me not have a social life. I’d never hurt anyone. Please, I promise I have no idea what happened to those girls.’

  Grace felt a momentary disgust, though whether at Matt’s excuses or at their power to reduce him to such abjection she wasn’t entirely sure.

  THIRTEEN

  Half an hour later, Grace dried her hands under the feeble stream of warm air, then approved her appearance in the mirror: neat and tidy; she’d do. She was still partly submerged in how the interview had gone, the way it had reshaped the kind of things she felt they needed to consider. Though she hadn’t yet quite nailed what she thought about Matt Beeston, she had recovered from her brief revulsion and felt charged and optimistic again. This was when she always knew without question, despite everything, that she was in the right job. Maybe, she told her reflection in the mirror, she might yet find a way to dance on thin ice after all.

  Checking her mobile she saw a missed call from a number she didn’t immediately recognise. Aware that it might be from one of the many people to whom she’d handed her card, she returned the call. It took her a moment to place the voice: Min, still technically her mother-in-law. Grace’s sunny mood was instantly punctured and replaced by a slush of nausea and regret. She caught her own gaze again in the mirror and recognised the old anxiety in her eyes, the misery of being caught wrong-footed and out in the open.

  ‘Min,’ she breathed.

  ‘Thank you for calling back,’ Min’s voice said crisply. ‘I didn’t think you would. But I need to talk to you about selling the house.’

  ‘The lawyers are dealing with that.’

  ‘Isn’t it enough for you that my son has lost the career he loved? Do you really have to take his home away from him as well?’

  ‘Our home,’ said Grace, knowing she shouldn’t say anything, shouldn’t engage. ‘I paid most of the deposit, and I need my share of the money.’

  ‘You know he’s had to sell his racing bikes?’

  ‘Min, I have to go.’

  ‘He can’t even train with the team any more.’

  ‘No, well, that’s down to him.’

  ‘At least leave him his home, some dignity. Do you have to take everything from him?’

  ‘Please, Min. This isn’t your fight. And I have to go.’

  ‘You let him down when he needed you. My son would never have done what you said he did.’ Min’s voice became shrill. ‘Are you honestly accusing me of raising a son who could behave like that?’

  Grace took a deep breath. Remember your training, she told herself. Treat her as you would a suspect. ‘Yes, Min, unfortunately I guess that is what I’d have to say to you. Goodbye.’

  She touched the mirror – had her skin really gone so pale? – and watched her fingers tremble against the reflection of her cheek. How could she have said that to Min, a woman she had liked and always got on well with? It was hardly Min’s fault that Trev had acted the way he had. The woman must be upset enough without Grace adding insult to injury.

  The old panic rose and she fought to beat it down. Had she been wrong? Had she ruined everything for – what? Some uptight, jobsworth morality? Sheer vanity that she knew better than everyone else? She’d learned the hard way that trying to do right didn’t get you loved: even her own husband had seen fit to punish her for being a grass.

  She took some deep breaths, swung her arms, tried to raise her heart rate to match the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She must go. Everyone would be waiting to get started. She’d left Kent, hadn’t she? She was here now. A fresh start. She’d acted in good faith, and she mustn’t let her own dark thoughts drag her back to what had happened before. She was a good cop. All she had to do was concentrate on the present, pull her weight and earn her place in the team. Surely she could do that? Surely no one would attempt to stop her doing that?

  As she climbed the stairs, trying to refocus her thoughts on Matt’s interview, her mind was flooded by the image of Rachel Moston, her skin pale and grey against the rubble. She wondered if there had been a final moment when Rachel had understood what was happening to her. Forensics had now confirmed there was no one else’s DNA under her fingernails, no bruises on her wrists or arms to show she’d struggled to free herself. Had she been taken completely by surprise? Or had she known and perhaps trusted her killer and so been paralysed at that moment of terrifying comprehension when she realised what he was about to do? For the young woman’s sake, Grace hoped not.

  Keith, waiting in his office with obvious impatience, began to speak the moment Grace closed the door behind her. ‘So what do we think? Do we believe him?’

  ‘We’ve established he’s a liar,’ said Lance.

  ‘Not a very clever one,’ Duncan observed. ‘Just assumes he’s entitled to evade responsibility for his actions.’

  ‘So busy saving his own skin that he could scarcely express even the most conventional regrets for the death of a young woman he’s taught once a week for the past year,’ said Keith.

  ‘He’s narcissistic, sociopathic,’ Lance agreed. ‘No concern for anyone but himself.’

  ‘Which doesn’t fit with the way Rachel was displayed,’ said Grace.

  ‘The bottle?’ asked Keith, confused.

  ‘No, I was thinking of the jacket under her head,’ she replied. ‘That shows someone capable of tenderness, someone with a conscience. Not a sociopath.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Keith, leaning back in his black leather desk chair. ‘But we’re not judging a beauty contest. We need to work out what signi
ficance the crime scene had for him, something that we can actually use.’

  ‘Control,’ said Lance decisively. ‘That’s why Matt sleeps with his students, women who are subordinate to him, who make him feel powerful.’

  ‘And Polly?’ asked Grace. ‘Are we saying she ran into Matt again the night after they slept together? And what, she belittled him or something, so he killed her?’ She heard the doubt in her own voice. ‘So where is she? Why didn’t he leave her body like Rachel’s?’

  ‘And why kill again five nights later?’ asked Duncan.

  ‘Polly might’ve been an accident,’ said Lance. ‘But he enjoyed it, got a kick out of it, a taste for it. So the next time was controlled, planned, highly organised.’

  ‘So he’ll do it again?’ asked Grace.

  ‘Slow down!’ warned Keith. ‘Let’s stick to what we know, which is that Dr Beeston is a bit of a party animal, was at the Blue Bar at the relevant times but tried to lie about it, and lives nearby. What’s our next step? Do we take his flat apart?’

  ‘It had been recently cleaned,’ Grace observed. ‘But he didn’t seem particularly nervous about letting us in when we picked him up. Or about us bagging up his clothes.’

  ‘He doesn’t drive,’ Duncan pointed out. ‘If his flat is a murder scene, how did he get Rachel’s body back into town, and what did he do with Polly?’

  ‘We still don’t know that Rachel and Polly are connected,’ said Grace.

  ‘In which case,’ Keith said bitterly, ‘we’re tying ourselves up in pointless knots. The main reason we’ve put Dr Beeston in the frame is his connection to both women.’

  ‘There’s nothing so far in Rachel’s background to point us in any other direction,’ said Duncan neutrally. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary on her phone or laptop.’

  ‘Right.’ Keith snapped forward in his chair. ‘What about this man Matt claims Polly asked for a lift? Do we believe Matt on that?’

  ‘Polly’s friends said that on the night she disappeared she was about to get a cab home,’ said Duncan. ‘We can be fairly certain now that she didn’t. Trains had stopped and she wasn’t on the night bus. Gone, just like that!’ He snapped his fingers like a magician. ‘Matey’s the only one who knows where she is.’