He thought of the extremes Rachel had gone to, to avenge the appalling murder of her son, and what could have been the outcome of her quest.
Kissing her on the cheek he left, closing the door gently behind him. He walked into the clear air of the late afternoon.
He needed to speak to Sam, who was being held in police custody.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Jonathan got back to his flat in London just before midnight, having debriefed Tom via a mobile call about what Rachel had told him. They’d arranged to meet the next day in Birmingham. Tom had promised Jonathan could speak with Sam – off the record.
He made his way to his study and sat down heavily on a chair. He pulled out a wipe from the sachet and cleaned the keyboard. He couldn’t get his head around Sam killing Joe: what was his motive? He hadn’t discussed it with Rachel; that would come later, when both he and Tom knew more.
And Bridget? Where did she fit into all this? What had driven Sam to kill his wife? If Sam had killed Joe, perhaps Bridget had found out and threatened to expose him. Is that what they had been arguing about prior to his last visit? Why Bridget had looked so terrified? Or possibly, was it Bridget who had gone to the squat and killed Joe? But again: why?
He stood and threw the screwed-up wipe onto the floor. He walked to the bathroom, brushed his teeth and fell into bed, exhausted.
Jonathan arrived at the West Midlands police station just after ten.
Tom was waiting in the reception area. ‘On time. Good. Follow me, a spare interview room awaits.’
He said nothing, following the detective. The room was small and smelt strongly of damp. He wished he hadn’t eaten breakfast.
Tom pulled a chair out for him. ‘Sit.’
He did as he was told.
‘How did Sam kill Bridget?’
‘From behind, with a very sharp carving knife. Her throat was cut as she peeled the potatoes for tea. Very nicely done, the pathologist says.’
An image of Sam sharpening his knives poked in Jonathan’s mind. ‘Shit.’ He stared at Tom, ‘And why?’
‘He’s said nothing about why he killed her. It might be better if you spoke to him.’ The policeman gave him a rare smile. ‘I’d appreciate it. We’re still formally questioning him, but he’s not opening up.’
‘I knew something wasn’t adding up. After talking with Sam recently, something niggled me. But I can’t believe Sam killed Joe ... I know that Bridget’s murder confirms he could have but...’
‘It may have been Sam who killed Joe and we have to bear that in mind. Obviously, he’s capable of murder ... as you say. But I agree; I’m not convinced. But if he did ... maybe Bridget knew it was Sam, maybe he admitted it to her then realised he’d have to kill her.’ He sighed. ‘Or was it Bridget? We have to keep an open mind. I don’t know, as I don’t know why Hemmings never said anything before to clear himself, if indeed it was Sam or Bridget who killed Joe.’ Tom leaned forwards, holding his hands above both knees. He didn’t seem himself. ‘The whole thing is a fucking nightmare.’
‘It is,’ Jonathan said. ‘What’s happening with Margaret Hemmings?’
‘We’ve already brought her in for questioning. If what Hemmings said to Rachel was true then Margaret Hemmings is a possible suspect, too.’
Jonathan saw the dampness on Tom’s temples and felt sorry for him.
Tom pulled out a piece of neatly folded A4 paper from his pocket. ‘Hemmings wrote this before meeting Rachel. It’s a suicide note.’
Jonathan reached for the letter.
Tom held onto it. ‘Later.’
Jonathan nodded. ‘Can I see Sam, now?’
‘He asked to see you.’
‘Did he? I like Sam,’ Jonathan said. ‘No idea what that says about me.’
‘Yes, he’s been no trouble.’
Jonathan grinned. ‘That’s good.’
—
When Jonathan and Tom entered the interrogation room they found Sam sitting on the floor, knees curled up towards his chest. A grey haired and frazzled-looking man sat at the desk. Tom had informed him it was Sam’s solicitor. Grey Man made no great effort to acknowledge Jonathan, only nodding towards Tom.
‘Hello, Sam.’
‘Hullo, Jonathan.’
‘So what’s going up?’
Sam looked puzzled.
‘How’re you feeling?’ Jonathan said.
‘I didn’t kill Joe.’
Jonathan wavered and looked towards Tom. ‘Can I have some time alone with Sam?’
‘Twenty minutes,’ Tom said.
‘I don’t think so,’ the grey solicitor answered. ‘Who is this?’
‘He’s my friend,’ Sam said. ‘Aren’t you, Jonathan?’
‘I am,’ Jonathan said.
‘I advise against it,’ Grey Man said to Sam.
Tom intervened. ‘It’ll be fine, Mr Bright. Jonathan knows what he’s doing. He wants to help Sam.’
Jonathan peered at Mr Bright, the grey man. Funny what makes you smile.
‘It’s all right, Mr Bright,’ Sam said. ‘You can leave.’
Grey Man nodded disagreeably. ‘Ensure this is documented, DCI Gillespie.’
Grey Man left and, three minutes later, so did Tom Gillespie.
Jonathan looked again at Sam. ‘Talk to me.’
‘Have you seen Michael?’
Sam hadn’t yet been told about his son’s suicide, only that Michael had told the police that it had been Sam who murdered Joe.
‘No, I haven’t. Michael said you killed Joe, Sam. Did you?’
His face screwed up; he became unrecognisable. His expression a bland mask. ‘No.’
‘Who killed Joe?’ Jonathan waited.
‘I always knew something wasn’t right. I let my son down.’
‘Who was it Sam? Who killed Joe?’ Jonathan took a long breath. ‘Was it Bridget?’
‘I’m not sure, not sure of anything.’ Still looking downwards at the tiled floor. ‘I wasn’t there. I didn’t go to see Michael.’
‘Did Bridget go?’ Jonathan asked. Had it been Bridget who was at the squat, and not Margaret?
‘Michael called Bridget the day Joe died. I thought he was calling from Chester. It was only just before your last visit that she told me he’d called from the squat in Sutton Coldfield ... and that Joe had been there. He called and told her that he had Joe at the squat. She didn’t go, she said, just told him to let Joe go. Said she heard Joe over the phone. I can’t believe she kept it to herself.’
‘Why didn’t she say anything, all this time?’ That was the mystery he’d picked up every time he’d encountered the couple since in 2000. It made sense now.
‘She was protecting Michael, she said,’ Sam continued. ‘Then Joe’s body was found and she could say nothing.’ He looked at Jonathan. ‘She told me all this the last time you came to see us, just before you turned up.’
‘Why did you kill her, Sam?’
‘I couldn’t believe that she knew, and said nothing. I’ve loved Bridget all my life and I couldn’t believe that she knew Michael was keeping Joe at the squat.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me about Bridget knowing about Joe – the day I saw you? I could have helped you, stopped you from doing this. You’ll go to prison, Sam. This is premeditated murder.’ He sighed. ‘You thought about it, planned it.’
Sam said nothing.
‘Why did ... does Michael say it was you who killed Joe?’
‘He’s confused. He really thought he did kill Joe, and then convinced himself it was me.’ He wrung his hands together. ‘Bridget told me she thought someone else was in the squat with him. Just before I killed her, she told me that.’
‘Who?’
‘She thought she heard Margaret’s voice in the background. That’s what tipped me over, when I used my knife. Fucking Margaret.’
‘And Bridget never said a thing before? All these years?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘Sam, what exactly happened the day Jo
e was killed?’
Sam now sat upright. ‘Michael’d called Bridget and I in a state. As I’ve already told you, I thought he was calling from Chester; I refused to go but Bridget wanted to, I forbade her. She must have called him back after I’d gone to the bakery.’
Jonathan nodded. ‘Did Michael ever mention to you about Margaret being there?’
‘Never. Despite our Michael’s problems, Jonathan, I never believed he could kill.’
‘So who do you think did kill Joe?’ Jonathan was pleading, wanting to know the full truth.
Sam looked hard at him. ‘I have my suspicions ... since Bridget came clean with me.’ He slumped forwards. ‘Christ, this is all such a mess. My family – a bloody mess.’
He paused briefly, trying to calm himself. ‘Michael confessed to Joe’s murder and no one questioned that too closely.’ He looked up, his eyes moist. ‘Tell Rachel I’m sorry, Jonathan.’
‘Who do you think killed Joe?’ Jonathan persisted.
‘You work it out,’ Sam said resignedly.
Jonathan touched the broken man’s shoulder. ‘I’ll keep in touch, Sam.’ He knew he would get no more.
And he left the room, his heart heavier than he’d thought possible.
Jonathan found Tom waiting for him. He looked around for Sam’s solicitor.
‘He’s having a crap, I think,’ Tom grinned. ‘Did Sam open up?’
‘Can I see Hemmings’ suicide essay?’
Tom pulled it from his pocket. ‘Here.’
Jonathan unfolded the A4 paper and read.
Moving to The Monastery stirred me up, made me remember, and made me think. As I write this letter, I feel almost normal, with no colours, no auras. I feel peaceful.
I am meeting Amanda today, but I know Amanda is Rachel. I don’t like Rachel. I do prefer Amanda. I’m not sure if I will tell Rachel the truth, only because the truth comes and goes. And I’m uncertain if the truth will be there when I see her. So I’m telling the truth now, while I can.
I didn’t kill Joe. I know Bridget is my mother; I know that today. Margaret wants nothing else to do with me, she didn’t even back then. I admitted to killing Joe – it was easy, as everyone thought I’d done it anyway. Over the last five years I’ve become more and more confused until I really thought I’d killed Joe. I began thinking it was my dad who had done it, but it wasn’t my dad, he wasn’t even there. He didn’t know I had Joe.
Bridget never came to visit me at Littleworth but she knew I had Joe, as did Margaret, because Margaret was there.
Sometimes I convinced myself it was me who had killed Joe. In the end it doesn’t matter. Joe’s dead, and I’m sorry. And sorry what I did to him afterwards.
My mum and dad both abandoned me, years ago – like owners would abandon a mangy dog.
It was Margaret who killed Joe.
Anyway, when this note is read it will, finally, be over.
Michael Hemmings.
Tom leant against the wall of the corridor. ‘What did Sam tell you? I hope something because I’m breaking all the rules here. I should have stayed in the room with you.’
‘He denies killing Joe and I believe him. But this note tells us everything we need to know.’ Jonathan sat on his haunches, his energy gone. ‘Rachel will never get over this. Liam in the den, Charlotte Gayle, her own mother...’ He glanced at Tom. ‘What’s Margaret said? Anything?’
‘She certainly has. She’s admitted the murder of Joe Dune. I wanted you to speak to Sam, to find out what had really happened. I can’t fucking believe it.’
‘Margaret’s motive?’ Jonathan wasn’t surprised.
‘That Joe knew about her and Hemmings. Over the time he had Joe, Hemmings told the boy everything. Told a seven-year-old everything he himself had been through with Margaret. Margaret lost that infamous temper when she realised Joe knew. So she killed him. Last night at the hospital, Rachel told me about an incident from her childhood when Margaret poured boiling water over her hand, because Rachel questioned her about the weird relationship between her and Michael.’
‘Jesus ... and Joe’s body, afterwards ... Margaret?’
‘No, I think not. She denies that. She left Hemmings with the body, left Hemmings with the need to admit to killing Joe and to protect her. What happened to Joe afterwards,’ he coughed, ‘that was Hemmings.’
Jonathan looked up at Tom who seemed smaller, less menacing. ‘This isn’t going to look good for your investigation, is it?’
‘No. It isn’t.’ He bent forwards, as if trying to find energy. ‘Rachel will never forgive me for this.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself.’
‘She will, and you will,’ Jonathan said. ‘Rachel will need as much support as possible. She’s gone to extraordinary lengths to get the man she thought killed her son. She finds out it wasn’t Michael. He tells her it was Sam ... Now we have to tell her the truth, although I think, deep down, she already suspects.’
‘You or me, to tell Rachel?’ Tom said.
‘If it’s OK with you, me?’
Tom nodded.
‘Don’t you think someone should tell Sam that Michael’s dead?’ Jonathan asked.
‘Rachel’s dad is already here, in the waiting room. Came in with Margaret. We thought we’d leave it for him.’ He shot a tired glance towards Jonathan. ‘Poor sod.’
Jonathan shook his head. Poor Rachel. He needed to speak to her.
Saying his goodbyes to Tom Gillespie, he made his way back to Liverpool and the hospital. Back to Rachel.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Rachel was alone when Jonathan poked his head through the crack in the door.
She was sitting up on a crisply made bed, knees tucked in tightly, wearing jeans that appeared too large, and a baggy jumper. A petrol blue ribbon was woven into her darkened hair, just one, but it was a start. Although her face was different, he saw the real Rachel. She rocked forwards and backwards, gently. No smile on her face, yet she appeared serene.
She was listening to an iPod, which explained the rocking. Pulling out her earphones, she looked up. ‘Hi Jonathan. I thought you’d gone back to London.’
‘I did. I’ve come back.’
‘I’m glad.’
The smile she gave him was all he needed. He sat on the big chair next to her bed, watching as she stretched out her legs. ‘I don’t want to bother you too much.’
‘You don’t bother me.’
‘I have some news and I think you should know it,’ he said. ‘I’ve spoken to Tom and he agrees I should tell you sooner rather than later.’
Her face fell. ‘Go on.’ She seemed to brace herself, drawing her knees up towards her stomach; she leant forwards, curling into a ball.
‘I’ve been to see Sam, this morning. He says he didn’t kill Joe.’
She shook her head. ‘No, as fucked up as everything is, I can’t believe that Sam was responsible for Joe’s death. But why did Hemmings lie? Even before he died, the bastard was playing with me. Since Joe’s murder I had been convincing myself that Hemmings was sane, that he knew exactly what he was doing, but I was wrong.’ She looked towards him, held his gaze. ‘There’s more, isn’t there? Margaret?’
‘Christ, Rachel, I’m so sorry.’ He didn’t think he could do this but he had to, he loved her. Had always loved her. She looked so different, but the essence of her shone through everything Marek had done.
‘I know Michael was telling the truth about what my mother had done to him,’ she said. ‘I know because I remember things. Now I believe Michael didn’t kill Joe, despite everything.’ Her voice fell to a whisper and she seemed to shrink in front of him.
‘Rachel ...’ He moved closer, wanting to erase the misery of the truth. He touched her cheek, a familiar expression on an unfamiliar face swallowed up her features. ‘The day you met Hemmings ... Sam killed Bridget.’
He watched her breathing rate increase but she said nothing. He carried on. ‘He killed her because she admitted to kno
wing that Joe was at Hemmings’ squat. She knew Margaret was there, too.’ He waited a few moments. ‘It was Margaret, Rachel.’
He waited for a response. None came. She hadn’t moved; she seemed to have stopped breathing. He continued, ‘Michael left a suicide note – he planned his death. In the note he clarifies everything.’ He touched her knee. ‘Are you OK?’ Such a stupid question. ‘Margaret’s been taken in. She’s with Tom. She’s admitted to Joe’s murder.’
She searched his face. ‘Why did Michael lie, and for so long?’ She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Why did he say it was Sam?’ She avoided any mention of Margaret.
‘Protecting Margaret? Why did he say it was Sam? I don’t know, fuck, I really don’t know.’
Jonathan wondered if she’d ever make sense of any of this. Christ, he was finding it difficult. He moved closer. He’d do everything he could to help and support her. He knew he could; and hoped he’d handle the situation better than with Michelle. He couldn’t fail twice.
‘My dad ... our life, everything, just a mask of nothingness. Liam and Charlotte, too ...’ She found his eyes. ‘Why? Her own grandson. Joe’s body ... Jonathan.’ Suddenly she sprang up as if she was unable to bear with herself.
‘Don’t think ... Joe wouldn’t want you to think.’
‘No ...’ She paced the small room. ‘I thought it was Joe trying to tell me, but it was myself trying to tell me. Why wouldn’t I see?’
Jonathan said nothing because there was nothing he could say.
‘So Margaret’s at the station?’ she continued.
He nodded. ‘They’ve only just started questioning her. Tom’s given this one to Leatherby.’
‘That’s good. Tom’s too close.’ She sat back down on the bed. ‘Why did Bridget keep this to herself?’
‘I think she said nothing at first, and then as time went on felt it had only got more impossible to speak out. I suspect that she had thoughts about what was going on between Michael and Margaret, retrospectively, after things she said to me. I suppose when she realised Margaret was at the squat ... she thought Joe would be OK. I’m sure that’s what Bridget thought. She was scared to tell the truth at the time, at the trial, and time went by ... and she didn’t say anything. Although I’m certain Bridget had no idea it was Margaret ... but now we’ll never know.’
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