Good Girls Don't Die

by Isabelle Grey

  The detective superintendent went on to say that they’d been granted a thirty-six hour extension for further questioning, and then wisely left it to his communications director to confirm that Dr Matt Beeston remained of interest to them but had been released on police bail. There wasn’t much point concealing his name any longer, and Keith had made it pretty plain the other night that this was one he wanted thrown to the wolves. The ‘campus sex pest’ had found the media camped out on his doorstep when he got home, and the images of him trying to escape from them, looking furtive and unkempt in his shorts and football shirt, would doubtless dog him for the rest of his life.

  Dr Beeston really should’ve known better than to run and hide. Had no one told him that the worst sin in Fleet Street is to refuse to talk to the press? After all, no one appreciates getting the door slammed in his face. Roxanne had told Ivo that the Internet trolls had already latched on to the lecturer, despite his having deleted all his social media accounts. And he still had the joy of faeces in Jiffy bags and over-elaborate death threats to look forward to.

  Keith was now appealing directly to camera for anyone who was in Colchester town centre from midnight onwards on the relevant nights to come forward, regardless of whether or not they thought they’d seen either of the two young women. His team, the superintendent explained, wanted to build as full a picture of events as possible.

  Ivo had known Keith long enough to recognise the confidence in his voice, but Ivo was also damn sure that this appeal meant they still didn’t have the clincher with which to charge Zawodny. Ivo had seen this kind of ‘let’s saddle ’em up and ride out’ certainty before, and knew just how very wrong it could go. It’s a great day, Ivo thought to himself. Now just watch some bastard like me spoil it.

  He also spotted that Hilary was at pains not to mention Polly more than necessary, despite the promising lead of her landlord’s boat. It would not be long before the number of days Polly had been missing – the number printed every day in heavy black type in the top-right corner of the Courier’s front page – reached double figures. That was unlikely to play well with the SIO’s lords and masters, especially not with the spin Ivo would put on it. Polly, the golden girl with the golden retriever, whose golden future lay in the balance, ‘Our Polly’ – Ivo had seen to it that she was no longer merely Phil and Beverly’s beloved daughter, but everyone’s daughter. It was so predictably simple to whip up an entire nation over the fate of a single child, and then to conjure up an urgent need to find someone to blame for all the borrowed outrage and grief. Still, after all, he’d only be doing what his readers wanted.

  So who would the target be this time? The university authorities? The Home Secretary? If the police didn’t manage to charge this second suspect very soon, then the answer would be horribly easy: ‘Clueless Keith’. Even his bosses would take care to distance themselves the moment they saw what was in tomorrow’s paper.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Her back to the door, Grace stood to attention in front of the conference table. The chief constable had come over from Essex HQ in Chelmsford first thing that Monday morning and immediately turned the most prestigious meeting room into her temporary office. Irene Brown was a petite, sharp-eyed, plain-looking woman with short hair artfully coloured so that it was neither blonde nor grey. She stood in front of her chair wearing full dress uniform, which Grace guessed she had chosen, despite the summer weather, as appropriate to the severity of the occasion. A copy of this morning’s Courier lay on the table between them.

  ‘Have you seen it?’ she asked.

  Grace swallowed. ‘Only when I got to the station this morning, ma’am.’

  ‘Do you have anything to say?’

  There was no way around it. Grace had been told to hand over her mobile phone before she’d even crossed the threshold of the MIT office this morning, so there was no possibility of covering up her text to Roxanne. Any delay would only make matters worse. ‘I met Roxanne Carson, chief reporter on the Colchester Mercury, for a drink on Friday night. We did not discuss the case.’

  Grace prayed to every god she could think of that this was the truth: no matter how many tequila shots she’d had, surely she would never, ever have been such an idiot as to blab this?

  ‘Was the meeting logged with either the SIO or with Hilary Burnett?’

  Grace hung her head. ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Why not, DS Fisher?’ The chief con made an elaborate show of seating herself, sending a powerful message that this interrogation would last as long as it took.

  Grace was not invited to sit. She considered explaining the true reason why she’d texted Roxanne that night. She knew enough of Irene Brown’s background to hope she might be supportive of a fellow female officer: a former firearms and anti-terrorist commander with a fistful of postgraduate degrees, Irene Brown was one of only a small handful of women holding such senior rank, and had taken a fair bit of flak getting there. But the thought of talking about Trev, of raking over all that had happened in Kent, made Grace’s stomach churn in protest.

  ‘It slipped my mind, ma’am. I met with Roxanne Carson not because she’s a journalist, but because she’s an old friend. We were at university together.’ There could hardly be a more feeble excuse but it would have to do. Grace’s eyes dropped to the tabloid headline – A killer’s cocktail? – above the photograph of a half-empty bottle of Fire’n’Ice that the Courier reported had been found with Rachel Moston’s body, news of which had been concealed by the police.

  A darker unease pushed its way into Grace’s mind: she knew Roxanne was eager to escape her provincial job but surely she wasn’t so ambitious that she’d deliberately set out to work a friend over for information? Grace wasn’t ready to believe it, but it had to be a possibility, didn’t it? And if so, then might she have been too loaded to resist? Just how idiotically gullible had she been?

  ‘You are aware that Home Office guidance on misconduct states that police officers do not provide information to third parties, and that this includes family and friends?’

  Grace nodded, too miserable to speak: was she about to lose her job? Discreditable conduct was enough to warrant instant dismissal.

  ‘Public confidence in the police depends on officers demonstrating the highest standards of personal and professional behaviour. This is a serious breach of confidentiality and I intend to drill down until I find precisely where and how it occurred.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Following Operation Elveden, it’s essential that all interactions with the media are logged and approved, otherwise we lay ourselves open to accusations of corruption.’

  ‘I understand.’ Thanks to Elveden, some Met officers were now serving prison sentences for selling information to News International, and Grace knew that plenty of others were still looking over their shoulders.

  ‘Very well. Did any money change hands between you and Roxanne Carson?’

  ‘No, ma’am!’ Grace was terrified: surely the numerous drinks Roxanne had paid for couldn’t possibly lead to the even more serious accusation of wilful misconduct?

  ‘Did you tell her about this?’ The chief con leaned forward and rapped her knuckles on the grainy newsprint photo of the vodka bottle. The accompanying story made no mention of the second bottle they’d found yesterday, but somehow the Courier also knew that the man in custody was the victim’s Polish landlord and that police were examining his cabin cruiser, the Daisy Chain.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Grace answered robustly, hoping her face wouldn’t give her away. ‘I have always steadfastly refused to discuss any aspect of the case.’ But Grace knew all too well that, even if she had said nothing to Roxanne on Friday night, she had at their first meeting carelessly disclosed the content of the final CCTV images of Polly Sinclair after she’d staggered out of the Blue Bar with her friends.

  ‘So how do you think the Courier acquired intelligence that we have been at such pains to suppress?’ asked Irene Brown. ‘Superintendent Sta
lgood informs me that the only people who saw the bottle at the crime scene were himself, the Home Office pathologist Dr Tripathi, the CSIs, DS Cooper and you, DS Fisher.’

  Grace, transported back to the forensic tent, with white-suited figures gathered around the body in the eerie light, had no answer.

  ‘Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ It was a relief to be in agreement for once.

  ‘So what’s your theory on why I’m reading about it in this morning’s newspaper?’

  Grace was about to speak when the older woman held up a hand.

  ‘And not just me,’ said the chief con, fixing Grace with a particularly hard stare. ‘Rachel Moston’s parents had not yet been told about this aspect of their daughter’s death. I can only imagine their feelings at learning about it from a tabloid headline. They understandably feel very badly let down. Superintendent Stalgood is with them now, but you will appreciate why I intend to pursue this leak aggressively.’

  ‘Of course. It’s terrible.’ Grace had had to deal with enough bereaved family members to understand why at the back of every SIO’s mind in a murder inquiry was the fervent wish to offer those left behind at best justice and at the very least some hope of closure.

  ‘The story doesn’t describe precisely how and where the bottle was found,’ Grace pointed out. ‘If all the Courier knows is that a bottle of this brand of vodka is part of the investigation, then the leak could be anywhere along the chain of physical evidence.’

  ‘Just because the newspaper hasn’t printed it yet doesn’t mean they don’t know,’ said Irene Brown.

  ‘No, but if they don’t, then it widens the number of people who might have leaked the information.’

  ‘Indeed,’ she said drily. ‘Nor can we rule out the possibility that the Courier employed illegal means.’ She tapped the newspaper with an immaculately manicured fingernail. ‘In which case, it may be that no one in the police or forensic services is to blame.’

  Grace felt a glimmer of relief: perhaps she wasn’t about to be sacked after all.

  ‘I don’t want a witch hunt.’ The chief con spoke with a crispness that suggested that, were such a purge required, she would shine in the role of Witchfinder General. ‘But until we know precisely how this information got into the public domain, I will not tolerate any conduct that falls below the standard expected of a police officer, and I will prosecute any such behaviour to the fullest extent of my powers. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I can only apologise for my oversight in not logging my meeting with Roxanne Carson. I promise it won’t happen again.’

  ‘If you are discovered to have had any other unauthorised contact with any member of the media in the past week, or to have any further such contact in the future, I will treat it as a very serious disciplinary offence, is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  The older woman nodded a curt dismissal.

  More than glad to make her escape, Grace found Lance waiting outside. He looked her up and down with a mixture of reluctant sympathy and suspicion.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ she assured him, and didn’t hang about for a reply. All she wanted was a few moments on her own to dredge back through her hazy memories of last Friday night, sitting outside the Blue Bar with Roxanne, looking at the big yellow moon, knocking back shots and talking about everything under the stars. Everything, surely, except the half-full vodka bottle glistening between a dead woman’s thighs? Surely she’d never have been that stupid?

  TWENTY-SIX

  There was an unfamiliar hunch to Duncan’s shoulders as Grace accompanied him down to the interview room. Now the whole station had seen the Courier’s front page, and there was no one who hadn’t heard why the chief con had arrived so early and already swept away again in her gleaming car, leaving this nasty, curdled atmosphere behind. In the MIT office they’d all waited silently for Keith to return from his meeting with Rachel Moston’s parents. He looked as if he’d aged ten years during the half hour in which he’d had to explain not only what the killer had done with a vodka bottle to their beautiful twenty-one-year-old daughter, but also why Mr and Mrs Moston had not been told about it.

  The two or three people Grace and Duncan passed on the stairs avoided eye contract and slipped discreetly by; gone was the back-slapping excitement of Saturday when they’d first brought Pawel Zawodny in. Gone, too, was the optimism with which Grace had detoured through Castle Park early this morning on the walk from her flat. Over the weekend, forensics had confirmed that the bottle of Fire’n’Ice discovered yesterday in Pawel’s derelict Colchester house bore his fingerprints, and the bar code showed it had been purchased in the big Tesco where he’d already said he shopped. Eventually the store’s CCTV would reveal which customers had bought bottles, and, if one of them was Zawodny, maybe also whether he’d picked up more than one bottle, and when he’d bought it. The existence of that brand of vodka in his possession was not only too great a coincidence even for him to explain easily away, but – or so it had seemed until this morning’s Courier hit the stands – would also hand them a compelling opportunity to observe the veracity of his unguarded split-second reactions.

  Then, only Rachel Moston’s killer could have understood its significance: now, the Courier’s splashy front page had alerted Zawodny’s solicitor to the true significance of any questions put to his client about a vodka bottle. The tabloid had presented Zawodny with the gift of precious time in which to craft his responses. No wonder Keith had cursed Ivo Sweatman and demanded to see his head raised on a spike outside the front entrance to the police station where live broadcasters could use it as a backdrop.

  Pawel’s responses were already difficult enough to read without further unnecessary cat-and-mouse games. On her walk to work this morning, Grace had striven to remember her reactions on first meeting Polly’s landlord. It had been her first morning, not an immediately urgent call, no reason yet to view the man with any suspicion. But even then he’d said no more than necessary and asked them almost no questions. At the time, if she’d thought about his silence at all, she’d been grateful: garrulous bystanders she could do without. But now she saw a strong, stubborn act of will, a determination not to give them more than he had to.

  Trev, too, had that ability to stand back and keep himself in check, to deny the other person the reaction they were trying to provoke. It was part of what had made him an effective street officer. Even his relentless assault had felt precise and psychologically organised, carried out with the same determined, almost impersonal rhythm and tempo as if he’d been chasing a better time in a vital cycling trial. His fury had been contained and driven by a sense of righteousness: in his eyes she’d crossed a line, threatened his place within the team, and deserved the punishment he was meting out.

  The layout of Pawel’s Colchester house, the patterned Edwardian floor tiles in the hallway, the glass panels in the door, had all vividly brought back the sensations of that night. It had been January, bleak and icy, and Trev had left her there for an hour or more as he sat in the warm kitchen beyond the closed door. The cold had seeped into her broken bones and threatened to creep deep into her heart. She remembered fighting to stay awake, to imagine open fires, old school radiators, even the woollen cover of the hot-water bottle her grandmother used to slide between the flannelette sheets of the bed she used to sleep in as a child. Then the kitchen door had opened, spilling enough light for him to step over her and walk calmly upstairs. It had been the sound of him in the bathroom brushing his teeth that had finally spurred her into action. The pain had been indescribable, but she’d pulled herself upright, dragged herself into the kitchen and dialled 999.

  Was she was dealing with similar psychological traits in Pawel Zawodny? Was he a man who never lost his temper, who remained in control even when his sense of what was right, of what was due to him in terms of respect, was affronted? A man who could lead Rachel Moston to a demolition site, strangle her and then calmly arrang
e the body to his satisfaction, his Catholic conscience placing her folded jacket beneath her head as a parting gesture?

  If so, Grace thought, as she settled herself at the table in the interview room, then the Courier had just made their job even harder by giving him yet more reason to feel in control.

  And, she had to face it, the Courier’s front page had also badly unsettled her. The sour, toxic mood in the office had reminded her forcibly of Maidstone after she’d returned to work following Trev’s suspension. Even in the face of the severity of her injuries, everyone had turned against her. Her grilling by the chief con this morning had revived her worst fears: had she brought their scorn on herself, had they had every right to shun her as cowardly, self-righteous and interfering?

  She knew she shouldn’t face a suspect when she was racked with self-doubt like this: he’d pick it up and use it against her. She’d considered saying as much to the SIO, but Keith had been in no fit state to take further pressure, either, so she’d kept quiet. She’d just have to trust to Duncan’s common sense and stability.

  Pawel, in contrast, despite his night in the cells, appeared perfectly composed as he took his place opposite them. At the strategy meeting it had been decided that they had little option but to start off by asking him if he was aware of the newspaper report, yet when Grace invited him to comment, he seemed uninterested.

  ‘Do you drink vodka?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever purchased this brand?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  He looked at her with a glint of ridicule. ‘Yes. I am sure.’

  She had ready in her file a photograph of the Formica table in the Colchester house, and now slipped it across the table to him. ‘I am showing Mr Zawodny a photograph of a bottle of Fire’n’Ice vodka found in a house he recently purchased. Do you recognise this?’