by Sibel Hodge
I drew through the shouting and screaming and holes being punched through doors, and Mum crying and appearing in the mornings with yet another bruise or black eye or barely able to stand up properly, and Dad drinking himself to boiling point. I ignored it all, and immersed myself in the lines taking shape on the page and the colouring and shading and getting the perspective just right.
But I didn’t win. A girl called Trisha did. One of those popular kids who had all the latest clothes and was always immaculately dressed. Whose hair wasn’t butchered into a pudding bowl shape by her mum. Who giggled a lot and always did her homework on time. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but my entry was way better than hers. That night, I went into my room after all the chores were done to work on a new art project. Not winning would just make me more determined for next time. I hummed to myself as I etched charcoal across the page, rubbing with my finger, sitting back to study it from different angles, leaning in and drawing more. I couldn’t bring myself to care about what was going on in the room next door. Screams, shouts, chairs scraping against the floor, things being smashed. It had become like background noise now, so normal that it barely registered.
Sometimes I look back and feel guilty that I didn’t do something else to prevent it. That I’d stopped listening to them. I’d stopped caring that Mum wasn’t going to save me. Stopped feeling. I was just numb. Emotionally frozen.
So, yeah, maybe I am partly to blame for what happened that night. What if I’d gone into their room like all those other hundreds of times over the years? If I’d tried to break it up? If I’d turned Dad’s anger on me instead?
Then maybe he would never have stabbed her to death.
THE DETECTIVE
Chapter 17
‘Did anything come out of the press conference? Have we had any witnesses come forward? Anyone with information?’ Wilmott perched on the edge of a desk and picked a bit of fluff from his trousers, staring at it with distaste before he flicked it on the floor.
Poor Becky and Ronnie had been manning the phone lines following Wilmott’s moment of fame in front of the cameras, as well as trying to follow other lines of enquiry.
‘Just the usual nutters coming out of the woodwork,’ Becky said.
Ronnie nodded his agreement.
‘Shame. I looked good on TV.’
Becky rolled her eyes.
‘Anyway, we’ve had some more fingerprint and DNA results back,’ Wilmott carried on. ‘The long strands of hair found on Max’s body were from Alissa – no surprise there – and were most likely transferred during their last conversation and kiss in his office. The other two black hairs found on Max’s body are a match to Russell Stiles.’
Ronnie whistled.
‘Any more updates on the two unknown fingerprints in the office?’ I asked.
‘One set matched Brenda Johnson, the cleaner. Everyone who attended the wedding reception has given their prints now and none match the other set that was recovered. But that doesn’t matter, because Stiles is our prime suspect.’ Wilmott grinned proudly, as if he’d personally solved everything. ‘He was clearly obsessed with Alissa and stalked her, wanting them to get back together. He threatened Max, and according to Alissa’s more detailed account, she believes he had similarities to the man in the house.’
I folded my arms and leaned back in my chair, chewing on the end of a pen.
‘He has no alibi for the night in question,’ Wilmott carried on. ‘He also has a previous record for assault and for killing animals, hence the fate of Alissa’s cat. DNA taken from the Jack Daniel’s bottle and cigarette butts in the woods also matches Stiles. He was most likely unable to stand the thought of her with someone else, so he murdered Max Burbeck to get him out of the way, hoping to rekindle his relationship with Alissa.’
‘I’m not entirely convinced.’ I removed the pen from my mouth and twiddled it between my forefinger and middle finger.
‘Why?’ Wilmott raised a sceptical eyebrow.
‘You keep saying Alissa was lucky to escape the house that night without being killed herself, that she’s a victim. But it was around midnight, so the killer must’ve been reasonably sure that she’d be in the house at the time if he knew Max and Alissa. Why take the risk of her being there? Why not do it when Max was alone in the house? If it was Stiles, who seems to be ultra-protective of Alissa and completely in love with her, what would’ve happened if Alissa had come to Max’s aid? How could Stiles be sure he wouldn’t have had to hurt her to stop her sounding the alarm?’
‘You can’t second-guess a psychopath. Sometimes there’s no rhyme or reason to what they do. He was most likely worried about being caught and didn’t want to hang around any more when he was spotted by Alissa in case she raised the alarm. Do you have any other suggestions?’ Wilmott tilted his head. ‘If you do, I’m all ears.’ But his tone indicated he didn’t give a toss what I thought.
‘I think Alissa and Stiles were working together,’ I said. ‘Alissa and Max had only just got married, therefore she was the heir to millions. It’s very convenient she managed to get away from a crazed, knife-wielding man who’d just killed her husband. A man who made no attempt to break down the bathroom door to get to her when she spotted him, or to wait outside to get her when she climbed through the window. He just killed Max and vanished into thin air, which is weird. If he’d already killed once, then why not try to kill the only witness? Because the killer was just after Max and let her get away. And the way she says it played out gives her an alibi.’
‘It’s not convenient; it’s damned bloody lucky that she survived.’
‘And she seems to remember a hell of a lot of descriptive details about the killer during the highly stressful, frightening, and adrenaline-fuelled situation of running for her life, away from an armed man. In my experience, I’ve never known any witness in a similar situation to give as much information as she did.’
‘She’s a writer. She’s used to describing things in detail. Look, I read all the witness statements and notes on this case, Detective Sergeant Carter.’ I noted the little dig he couldn’t resist. ‘They all say the same thing about Alissa. That it was her who put off getting engaged, despite Max’s constant proposals. That they were very happy together. She was very much in love with him. That she is a very nice, very sweet girl, who looked after her mother when she was severely ill. That doesn’t sound like someone plotting to kill her husband. Plus, there’s the towel.’
‘Huh?’ Becky said.
‘If she was working with Stiles, how many women would voluntarily run around naked when they didn’t have to? In my experience with women, most of them are never happy with their bodies.’
‘That’s a bit of an assumption, sir,’ Becky snapped.
Wilmott shrugged. ‘Not really. If Alissa and Stiles planned this, she would’ve been in a bathrobe or something similar at the time.’
I snorted. ‘Unless she’s an exhibitionist? Or one of the few women you’ve never met in your vast conquests who actually are happy with their bodies?’
Wilmott glared at me.
‘I think something is a little off with Alissa,’ I said.
Wilmott gave me his best sarcastic Really? Do tell look. ‘Of course something’s off with her – she’s severely traumatised. Her husband’s just been murdered!’ He folded his arms and looked pointedly at me. ‘Do you have anything else, other than a feeling?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘Right, well, as SIO on this case, I want Stiles arrested and brought in again. We have DNA placing him at the scene on the night of the murder with a strong motive. And this time I’ll be interviewing him.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘My first case as DI, and I’ve got a result in record time! Looks like they picked the best man for the job, eh?’ He winked at me.
I fought the urge to punch him.
‘If you’re lucky, I’ll buy you all a drink later. It’s the least I can do for helping me clear this one up so quickly.’
I wo
uld rather suddenly develop a case of Ebola than have a drink with him.
After arresting Russell, I brought him back to the station for questioning. Now that Wilmott had a prime suspect, he wanted to swoop in and take over, banishing me to the sidelines. But I didn’t want to miss out on what Russell had to say, so I sat in the office and watched the live feed of Wilmott’s interview with him.
DI WILMOTT: We have some more questions for you about the night of Max Burbeck’s murder.
RUSSELL STILES: Why am I under arrest? I haven’t done anything! I told you last time. Should I have a lawyer?
DI WILMOTT: You are entitled to a lawyer if you want one. Do you need a lawyer, Russell?
RUSSELL STILES: No, of course not! I haven’t done anything wrong. How’s Alissa?
DI WILMOTT: She’s very fragile and distraught, as you can imagine. Her husband has just been brutally murdered. Now, let’s go back to that night.
RUSSELL STILES: I keep telling you, I don’t know anything!
DI WILMOTT: We’ve spoken to a number of people about the incident when you trespassed on Max and Alissa’s property during their wedding reception.
RUSSELL STILES: (Inaudible)
DI WILMOTT: Can you repeat that for the tape, please, Russell?
RUSSELL STILES: I’ve already told you about that. I just wanted to check that Alissa was happy.
DI WILMOTT: But your relationship with Alissa had ended three years ago, before she began a relationship with Max. So why did you think you were entitled to go on to the property, in the middle of their wedding reception, and speak to Alissa?’
RUSSELL STILES: I don’t know. Because we were friends. And Max was bad news for her.
DI WILMOTT: In what way was he bad news?
RUSSELL STILES: Because of that development I told you about. Did you check it out? Those people have lost everything and he wouldn’t even compensate them, despite the amount of money he’s got. That’s not the kind of person Alissa should be with.
DI WILMOTT: And who should she be with? You?
RUSSELL STILES: Look, I just wanted her to be with someone who deserved her.
DI WILMOTT: And you think that person is you, don’t you? You think no one else should be with her. Isn’t that why you killed Max?
RUSSELL STILES: No! I didn’t do anything! How many times do I have to say it?
DI WILMOTT: You said you watched the reception from the wooded area at the rear of the property?
RUSSELL STILES: Yeah.
DI WILMOTT: You’d been drinking that day, hadn’t you?
RUSSELL STILES: Yeah.
DI WILMOTT: Had you watched Max or Alissa from that spot before?
RUSSELL STILES: No.
DI WILMOTT: We found a bottle of Jack Daniel’s with your prints on it in those woods, along with some of your cigarette butts.
RUSSELL STILES: Yeah, they’re mine.
DI WILMOTT: In the same spot, we also found the body of Alissa’s cat, which had gone missing. It had a broken neck. Did you kill her cat?
RUSSELL STILES: What?! No, of course not.
DI WILMOTT: Did you see the cat when you were sitting there drinking and watching Alissa’s house? When you were stalking her?
RUSSELL STILES: No, I never saw the cat. Is this about the cat? I didn’t touch it! I couldn’t hurt an animal. That’s . . . horrible.
DI WILMOTT: But you have hurt animals before. You were fined for poaching. And how about hurting a human? You have a previous record for affray.
RUSSELL STILES: That was a misunderstanding.
DI WILMOTT: What kind of misunderstanding?
RUSSELL STILES: I was eighteen, I got involved in a scuffle in a pub with this guy.
DI WILMOTT: Over Alissa?
RUSSELL STILES: I was trying to protect her. The guy said some horrible stuff about her. Called her names.
DI WILMOTT: And you’re still trying to protect her now, aren’t you? You thought if you got Max out of the way you’d protect her from someone you didn’t think was worthy of her, isn’t that right?
RUSSELL STILES: I never touched him.
DI WILMOTT: But you do have a temper. The affray proves that.
RUSSELL STILES: No, I don’t.
DI WILMOTT: You lost your temper in the pub.
RUSSELL STILES: That was different. I would never hurt Alissa.
DI WILMOTT: How about Max? Would you hurt him?
RUSSELL STILES: No way! You’ve got the wrong person.
DI WILMOTT: But you did stalk Alissa. You did watch her. You did send texts to her, even though you knew she was in a relationship with Max. You threatened Max at their wedding reception, told him to watch his back. Then, lo and behold, he’s stabbed in the back of the neck! Wouldn’t it have been better for you if Max was out of the picture?
RUSSELL STILES: I was worried about her. I just wanted her to be happy.
DI WILMOTT: But she was happy. In her text replies to you, she told you she was. She didn’t want you harassing her, did she?
RUSSELL STILES: I wasn’t harassing her.
DI WILMOTT: She was going to get an injunction out against you because she was worried about your attention.
RUSSELL STILES: I don’t believe you.
DI WILMOTT: I think we’ve established a pattern of harassment here, don’t you?
RUSSELL STILES: (Inaudible)
DI WILMOTT: On the night of Max’s murder, you said you were night fishing, is that correct?
RUSSELL STILES: Yes.
DI WILMOTT: But no one saw you?
RUSSELL STILES: No, I don’t think so.
DI WILMOTT: You live approximately a mile away from Max and Alissa’s house in the same village. It would’ve been quite easy for you to slip out of the house after killing Max and return home through the woods, unseen.
RUSSELL STILES: I didn’t kill Max!
DI WILMOTT: Well, you can see my predicament, can’t you? You had a motive. You had the opportunity. And you have no one to corroborate your whereabouts that night. You match the physical characteristics of the man described by Alissa as being in the house. You were so obsessed with Alissa that you wanted to get rid of Max, didn’t you?
RUSSELL STILES: It wasn’t me. What about Leo? I saw the way he looked at Alissa. He was in love with her, too. I bet he wouldn’t have minded Max out of the way.
DI WILMOTT: And when did you see the way Leo looked at her? When you were stalking her?
RUSSELL STILES: (Inaudible)
DI WILMOTT: Did you ever go inside Max and Alissa’s house?’
RUSSELL STILES: No.
DI WILMOTT: No?
RUSSELL STILES: That’s what I said.
DI WILMOTT: You’re absolutely sure about that?
RUSSELL STILES: I just said so, didn’t I?
DI WILMOTT: We also found a hair at the scene, on Max’s body, which is a DNA match to yours. How do you explain that, then, if you never went inside the house?
RUSSELL STILES: What?
DI WILMOTT: Go on, just tell me what happened that night. You were upset and angry Alissa had married Max. You watched the house from the woods, didn’t you?
RUSSELL STILES: No!
DI WILMOTT: You saw Max working in his office because the curtains weren’t closed. You saw the bathroom light on and knew Alissa would be in there, out of the way. You entered the house from the unlocked kitchen door.
RUSSELL STILES: No, I didn’t!
DI WILMOTT: You stabbed Max from behind before he could hear you. Before he knew what hit him. Didn’t you, Russell?
RUSSELL STILES: I think I want a lawyer now.
I sat back and removed my headphones, watching Russell’s face on the screen, studying his body language for signs of lying. Something wasn’t right about this whole thing. It seemed too neat, too convenient. And something about it all didn’t ring true.
I scrubbed my hands over my face, thinking, until my mobile rang. It was Emma Bolton.
‘Hi, I just thought you’d
want to know that there’s been another fingerprint match found on the bottle of Jack Daniel’s.’
I sat forward, intrigued. ‘Go on.’
‘Leo Smithers’ prints were on the bottle, too.’
‘OK, great, thanks.’ I hung up, stretched my twinging back, and headed off to pay Leo another visit.
He was the manager of a local branch of one of the biggest international banks. Judging by his house and car, I bet he was still lapping up a huge expense account and mega bonuses while Mr and Mrs Unfortunate lived in Shit Street. It reminded me of the Mackenzie case all over again – the rich and influential getting away with everything and the rest of us being stitched up. But they were protected, and where was the justice in that? I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that there was no justice any more. Instead of bailing out the banks that caused the global financial crisis and letting them get away with the biggest fraud in history, we should’ve done what Iceland had done: prosecuted their dirty, scheming, lying arses.
I was shown into Leo’s lavish office, trying to push down my contempt for his kind. Despite my personal feelings, I still had to be objective.
He was on the phone, leaning back in his leather desk chair. When he saw me he held up his finger, indicating he wouldn’t be long. He wore an expensively cut black suit, a pale yellow shirt and an orange tie. He was talking to someone about shorting gold to manipulate the market, his brown eyes darting at me every now and then uncomfortably. I didn’t really understand what he was talking about, and that’s what the financial sector relied on – us not really having a clue how our banking and economic system worked. One day, when I had a minute, I’d have to do some research.
He wrapped up the conversation and put the phone down. Leaning forward in the chair, he held out a hand for me to shake, his gold cufflinks sparkling in the light. ‘I would say it’s nice to see you again, but it’s not, for obvious reasons.’
I smiled. The feeling was mutual. ‘I have a few more questions for you.’
‘Do you want coffee? I’ve got some kopi luwak.’
I bet he did. It was the most expensive coffee in the world, costing around £25–£70 per cup, and produced from the faeces of civets kept in cages and force-fed the coffee beans. What was the world coming to? ‘Thanks, but I don’t much go in for drinking cat shit.’