He frowned and took hold of the photograph, examining it closely. It was the first time Grace had seen him betray the slightest sign of being taken by surprise. But then his brow cleared. ‘A house-warming present!’ he declared, tossing the print back across the table. ‘My electrician brought it when he came to quote for the rewiring.’
‘But you don’t drink vodka.’
‘No, but he thinks I’m Polish so I will like it. He meant kindly.’
Duncan slid a pen and a blank sheet of paper across to him. ‘Can we please have the name and contact details of your electrician.’
‘Sure.’ Pawel scribbled a name and part of an address. ‘His number is on my phone, but he’s easy to find.’
Grace was watching him carefully. He looked up and deliberately caught her eye, then held her gaze and gave a tiny shake of his head, almost as if he wished her to know that she’d let him down and he was disappointed.
‘A bottle of Fire’n’Ice was found with Rachel Moston’s body,’ she reminded him.
‘So you tell me.’
‘So you know what was done to her?’
‘I haven’t seen the newspaper.’ He turned to the young solicitor sitting beside him, who nodded in confirmation.
Was it the truth, or a clever answer? Did Pawel know that, despite Ivo Sweatman’s lurid innuendo, only Rachel’s killer could tell them precisely how and where the bottle had been placed?
‘But you admit it’s a coincidence that it’s Polish vodka?’
Pawel gave a tired smile. ‘I don’t think that I am the only Polish builder in Essex.’
‘You got the keys to your house in Colchester the day before Polly Sinclair went missing. Did you take her there?’
‘No.’
Some of the dirty smears on the hallway paintwork had turned out to be blood, but not human. The CSIs reckoned it might be from a pigeon that had got itself trapped in the house.
Duncan cleared his throat, and Grace wondered if it was a signal to her to move on. They had discussed at the strategy meeting how this interview would be a poker game, a matter of trying to bluff Pawel into revealing what he knew. If Grace was unable to crack his poker face, then Keith had advised shifting him onto ground where he might lose his cool. In an earlier interview Pawel had been outraged when Grace asked if he’d masturbated while spying on Polly and Matt having sex. It had been one of the few times he’d revealed a strong emotion, so Keith had suggested she ask him about the tenant who’d accused him of stealing her underwear. Had he done so?
She put the question now, and read in his hard blue eyes that he knew it for a game and despised her for it. She pressed on, feeling heavy-handed. ‘Do you like to masturbate with women’s clothing?’
Pawel looked at her as if she was being ridiculous. ‘No comment,’ he replied.
‘Did you want to have sex with either Polly Sinclair or Rachel Moston?’
‘No comment.’
‘Did you kill Rachel Moston?’
‘No comment.’
‘Rachel Moston’s underwear has not been found. Did you take and keep her underpants?’
‘No comment.’ Grace could see how angry and resentful her questions were making him: had she succeeded in touching a nerve or was he insulted, as any innocent man would have a right to be, and was unafraid to show it?
It was getting personal, and she had to remember what this was all about. ‘Do you know where Polly Sinclair is?’
This time there was a slight change in his voice. ‘No comment.’
‘Is she still alive?’
‘No comment.’
‘Can you tell us anything that might help find her?’
This time he paused, then whispered to his solicitor, who nodded. ‘She cried out for help. I should have rescued her. Maybe if I’d done something that morning, she wouldn’t be missing.’
That was the last thing Pawel would say, other than ‘no comment’ for the rest of the interview and, with a conforming nod from Duncan, Grace decided there was no point prolonging it. Pawel was returned to his cell, and Grace found Keith and Lance waiting for them in the SIO’s office when she and Duncan got back upstairs.
‘What did you think?’ she asked immediately. ‘About rescuing Polly? Is he genuine?’
Keith shook his head. ‘We can’t afford to give him the benefit of the doubt,’ he said. ‘Not until he can alibi himself. There are too many gaps he can’t corroborate. Until we’re able to place him in town, he’ll be able to go on putting his own spin on everything we’ve got.’
‘He’s always one jump ahead,’ said Lance. ‘Like dumping suspicious-looking bags at sea. Telling us from the beginning that he spied on Polly having sex. He knew we’d get to Matt soon enough, who’d tell us he was there.’
‘It could just be the truth,’ said Grace.
‘Don’t be taken in by him,’ warned Lance.
Grace felt herself blushing: was she being a fool? Again?
Keith ran his hands impatiently through his hair as if somehow a fresh solution would release itself. ‘We’re letting him run rings around us,’ he declared. ‘Maybe we should give him more rope. See what he does.’
‘Let him go?’ Lance’s tone was sharp.
‘I don’t see the point of holding on to him any longer right now, do you? We’ll put a tracker on his vehicle, listening devices in his flat and his yard, keep watching him. He may have premises we don’t know about, a car not registered to him. If he’s our man, then sooner or later he’ll lead us to something.’
Keith looked at each of them in turn, but no one could come up with any persuasive counter argument. ‘Right, then.’ He sighed wearily. ‘Anyone got a good suggestion for Hilary on how the hell we contain this mess?’
No one did, and, estranged by failure, they went their separate ways. Grace went down to custody, wanting her presence to issue a final reminder to Pawel that it was she who possessed the power to release him. If he was guilty, then the best way to increase the pressure on him was to place him in thrall to a woman.
But Pawel collected his phone, money and other items from the custody sergeant – Grace had already confirmed that amongst his possessions was a gold cross on a chain – and then turned to her with a mild look and a simple question: ‘I am free?’
‘For now.’
He nodded, giving her a candid, almost sorrowful look, and then headed for the door. At no point since his arrest had he ever once claimed his innocence or denied harming either Polly or Rachel.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The pub was quaint, an old coaching inn popular with eighteenth-century smugglers, according to a framed potted history above the bar, but it was fifteen miles from Colchester – in the opposite direction to Wivenhoe – and, Grace hoped, not a regular watering hole for any of her work colleagues. She had rung Roxanne’s mobile from a public call box at the railway station and asked if they could meet. It was all unpleasantly surreptitious, but Grace couldn’t rest until she knew precisely what she had or hadn’t said the other night at the Blue Bar.
Unfamiliar with the road, Grace had given herself plenty of time and so arrived early. By the time Roxanne was twenty minutes late – and had not texted to say where she was – Grace was beginning to think this was a bad idea. She wouldn’t have blamed Roxanne for bailing out: she must have sounded fairly peremptory on the phone, and Grace could only assume that if Roxanne had had anything at all to do with the leak she must be feeling pretty uncomfortable about it by now. For surely, even if she could forgive herself for betraying an old friend, she must recognise how she’d jeopardised the hunt for a killer?
As Grace waited, she thought back to one of her abortive attempts to straighten things out with her old friends back in Maidstone. She’d asked Margie to meet her one Sunday lunchtime in a pretty village pub well away from work. Margie, who’d been a good mate and watched her back at work, was her witness when she married Trev. Their wedding hadn’t been a big affair, but he’d insisted on somewhere truly
romantic and had wangled a midweek July package at Leeds Castle. After all the food and speeches, Grace had walked arm in arm with Margie beside the moat, admiring the stately swans, and believed she couldn’t be happier. Little more than eighteen months later Margie had sat rigidly by a roaring fire in that village pub as Grace tried to remind her of their closeness, to appeal for understanding and forgiveness. It had been a wasted effort and a scornful Margie had departed soon afterwards, leaving Grace even more miserable than when she arrived – something she hadn’t imagined possible.
When Roxanne finally turned up, she was unapologetic about her lateness. ‘Are you OK?’ she asked, before even saying hello. ‘Trev’s not been back hassling you again, has he?’
‘No.’ Grace was taken aback by the question.
‘Only you sounded a bit desperate on the phone. And what with all the cloak and dagger stuff with the call box, I got worried.’
‘No, no, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Oh, thank goodness. Can I get you another? Better go easy as we’re both driving.’
‘I’m not drinking. I never drink and drive.’ Grace saw too late that she sounded prissy, but Roxanne had already gone over to the bar so it was too late to explain that for a police officer it was simply never worth the risk of being pulled over. She frowned into her water and lime juice. She knew it was perverse to be annoyed by Roxanne’s concern, but this wasn’t the conversation she had planned.
Roxanne soon returned with a glass of white wine and settled cosily in beside Grace on the dark oak settle. ‘I wanted to call over the weekend to see how you were,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t dare risk it.’
‘Just as well. I nearly got fired this morning as it was.’
‘What?’ said Roxanne. ‘Why?’
‘The story in today’s Courier.’
‘How would that get you fired?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Really? Tell me, did you happen to get the shifts you were after in London?’
Roxanne grinned. ‘On the Courier? Yeah, not bad, eh?’
‘So how did that happen?’
‘Ivo Sweatman put in a word for me.’
‘The guy who wrote the story in the Courier?’
‘Right. You’ll have seen him at the press conferences.’
‘He sits next to you?’
‘Yes,’ Roxanne agreed. ‘Did you see my piece in the Mercury?’
‘I’ve been kind of busy today.’
‘About the university claiming student confidentiality when it ignored complaints against Matt Beeston and let him continue teaching.’
‘You’re not big on confidentiality?’
‘Grace, what the hell’s the matter? Are you pissed off with me?’
‘I don’t know. Should I be?’
‘What am I supposed to have done?’
‘Friday night. Is that how Ivo Sweatman got the information about the vodka bottle?’
‘Friday night? You know what happened Friday night.’
‘I know you made sure I kept knocking back the tequila.’
Roxanne drew back and studied Grace’s face before she spoke. ‘You mean you think I deliberately got you pissed to get information out of you?’
‘Look, I need to know,’ said Grace, hearing the unpleasant edge to her voice. ‘Was I so pissed that I told you about the bottle?’
‘You don’t remember?’
‘No.’
Roxanne waited for Grace to say more. Grace knew she ought to backtrack, to apologise, but some stupid pride at all the times she’d had to grovel and crawl to people in Maidstone just in order to carry out some semblance of her job made her stubborn.
‘But that’s what you think happened?’ Roxanne asked carefully.
Grace rebelled against being made to feel like she was in the wrong. ‘I got hauled in front of the chief constable first thing this morning. She was all dolled up in full dress uniform like the bloody Gestapo. They took my phone off me, and if the Professional Standards Department get called in they’ll want my laptop, too. If they knew I was here with you now, I’d be sacked.’
‘Because you might be telling me stuff you shouldn’t and I’d pass it all on to the Courier?’
‘Yes,’ Grace insisted, refusing to listen to the small voice in her head warning her to drop it, right now.
Roxanne laughed contemptuously. ‘It was a great front page this morning.’
‘Don’t play games! Please, Roxanne! I took enough of this crap in Kent. You’ve no idea.’ It took all Grace’s strength not to wipe her face as the visceral memory of being spat at in the supermarket aisle returned.
But Roxanne merely shrugged, her face pale against the dark curls of her hair. ‘You broke their rules. Maybe they felt entitled.’
‘They were really bad rules! I was trying to protect people!’
‘But you did pass on information knowing there’d be consequences.’
There was a funny twist on Roxanne’s face, and finally Grace remembered some of what she and Roxanne had talked about on Friday night at the Blue Bar, how gently Roxanne had coaxed the full story out of her, how comforting and reassuring she’d been. Roxanne had been the first person who’d just sat and listened and then hugged her close. And this was how Grace was thanking her!
‘I’m sorry, Roxanne. It’s been a tough day. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. But I do need to know what happened in case it comes to some kind of inquiry.’
‘You can work it out, can’t you?’
‘I was tired and drunk. I need to know I didn’t say anything.’
‘I’m sure it’ll all come back to you eventually.’ Roxanne got to her feet. ‘I’d better be heading back.’
‘Forgive me?’
‘Sure. Whatever.’ Roxanne turned her back, gathering up her bag and jacket. She had barely touched her glass of wine.
Grace reached out and held her by the arm. ‘So where did Ivo Sweatman get his story?’
Roxanne responded with a cold stare, shaking free of Grace’s grip before she answered. ‘I can’t reveal my sources.’
‘So it did come from you?’
‘Like I say –’
Recoiling from Roxanne’s hard look, Grace retaliated. ‘You blew our best chance with the suspect today.’
Roxanne shrugged. ‘It’s a free press.’
‘And that gives you the right to run our case for us?’
‘We answer to our readers.’
‘Really? That’s your authority?’ Grace demanded. ‘Well, Rachel Moston’s parents are readers. They read the Courier today. So I wish you and your pal Ivo Sweatman had been there in the room with them to explain why the freedom of the press is so fucking important!’
‘Don’t give me that moral bullshit!’ Roxanne hit back. ‘You do your job because you get a kick out of it, same as I do, so don’t get all holier-than-thou about it.’
Grace sat and watched Roxanne march out of the pub. She felt dreadful. Deep down, she was pretty certain she’d been in the wrong from beginning to end, but some little devil in her had pushed and pushed, as if she wanted to prove to herself how unlovable she was, how untrustworthy a friend. She was right back where she started, and this time she really did have only herself to blame.
TWENTY-EIGHT
As Ivo walked from the car park, he was amazed to see quite so many twinkling lights clothing the curving slopes of the parkland around the ornamental lakes. It was all very pretty, a clear June evening with trees casting long shadows, but nevertheless he’d not expected such a huge crowd to gather here to mark Polly Sinclair’s twenty-first birthday. Quite a few of the people who, like him, were still making their way towards the grassy hill beyond the nearest lake carried yellow balloons tied with matching streamers, while others wore white T-shirts printed with a photograph of a smiling, fluffy-haired Polly, with her name and MISSING in bright red letters. The Courier had had them printed and sent people to distribute them,
while the photographer had been given instructions to snap the cutest-looking girls he could find wearing them.
Some small groups, camped around clusters of flickering tea lights, hugged each other tearfully, but mainly there was an incongruously expectant atmosphere. Ivo had already spotted picnickers; quite a few of those arriving alongside him carried bottles of wine and from several directions he could hear music being played. Where did they think they were? Glastonbury? Not that he’d write that in tomorrow’s edition. No, it would be more along the lines of Like stars in the sky, Polly’s loyal friends lit candles and stifled tears to wish Happy Birthday to the golden girl, now missing for eleven long days.
He could see at least three camera crews out working the crowd, recording vox pops for the evening news segments. Half the car park had been reserved for their oversized macho broadcast vans, while he’d been forced to bum change for a pay-and-display ticket. When he’d spoken to Fiona Johnson, the university’s director of communications, she’d been hard put to hide her disdain for red-top scum like him. But let some rugged, ex-war-zone anchorman turn up and lavish his camera-friendly dentistry on her and she’d no doubt be melting into his arms. Those TV people were so up themselves it wasn’t true.
Ivo was in a bad mood. Although he’d been able to quash the idea without too much trouble, it had been irksome that his editor had allowed his arm to be twisted by the Young Ferret into floating the idea past Ivo that his junior should get an ‘additional reporting’ credit. True, the Young Ferret’s sharp nose and special skills had proved more than helpful, but Ivo wasn’t having anyone back in the newsroom forgetting that it was he, wearing out his shoe leather here on the ground, who’d got the ball rolling.
Except that wasn’t true, either, and, if he was honest, that’s what was really pissing him off. Everything Roxanne had told him so far had checked out, but now she’d wised up and was refusing to disclose where she was getting her information. He suspected her source was the Ice Maiden and that it was DS Fisher who’d enforced the blackout for her own protection. It certainly made sense, but it rankled nonetheless, and he devoutly hoped the cub reporter wasn’t hot on the scent of some career-making story that would leave him dead in the water. If there was one situation Ivo really and truly hated with a passion, it was finding himself on the back foot and outsmarted by the competition.
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