by Ian Mayfield
‘Don’t ask me why he didn’t.’ The DI shrugged. ‘It seems he had ample opportunity. Perhaps because she was wearing jeans with a sturdy belt. I don’t know. Whatever it was, he left her inviolate.’
‘Big fucking deal,’ Lucky said.
‘Nail scrapings we have,’ Zoltan continued. ‘Dirt. What good it does us I don’t know.’
‘Skin?’ Jeff said. ‘She must’ve put up a - ’
‘I don’t think she got the chance,’ Zoltan retorted, finding himself too shocked for his customary sarcasm. ‘Although Nina was on call last night and should’ve had all her service gubbins on her, Kim’s been through her stuff and can’t find her phone, warrant card or handcuffs. There are marks on her wrists which suggest,’ he added heavily, ‘she was restrained with them.’
‘Bastard,’ Jeff muttered in the pindrop silence.
Jasmin had the next question. ‘Have we an idea of the weapon?’
‘Well, now.’ Zoltan had been dreading this one. ‘All the FME could tell was that the deepest wound was ragged along one edge. She had trouble observing much more because a paramedic had his fist in it, trying to stop Nina bleeding to death.’
‘What the hell was it,’ Jeff said, ‘a fucking harpoon?’
‘For all we know.’ Zoltan looked at all of them. ‘Or a very big knife.’
He measured it with parallel palms.
‘Any more questions?’
There were a million more questions but no-one asked them.
‘Good. Save them. All we know from warming our arses here is that Nina is in very bad shape. We don’t know who’s responsible or what she was doing in Ballards Way. So let’s be over there knocking on doors and waking the good citizens from their Sunday lie in. Yes?’
Jeff, his hand up again, said, ‘If she was in Ballards Way...’
He tailed off. Zoltan was treating him to one of his stares. ‘It’s in hand, constable.’
Sophia spotted Brian Hunt’s bike secured to a lamppost. Back a few hours from his holiday, jetlag had woken him at half past four, and he’d been fully alert when the call came. Brian was a curiosity to his colleagues. No-one quite believed a detective who employed a bicycle as his preferred mode of transport. Where the rest of the team used cars for work as a matter of course, Brian cycled. Arguably, in South London traffic he could respond to a call just as quickly.
He emerged from the alleyway as Sophia parked, instantly recognisable, tall, fair and built like an electricity pylon. His cheeks and jaw were adorned with the wisps of one of his periodic attempts at a beard. His shoulders were hunched and his hands thrust into the pockets of a charcoal grey suit jacket. He had on faded blue jeans with one knee out. For Brian, he looked solemn, an opaqueness in his normally affable blue eyes. Sophia got out and looked around. On her instructions, police presence was for the moment being kept low key. The only signs of recent activity were two patrol cars, their crews sitting inside them, and a small van. She frowned at it.
‘I hope you haven’t let a dog trample all over the place?’
‘No, it’s OK, guv, they were careful,’ Brian said. ‘But they did track Nina’s scent back to one of the gardens.’
‘The Clarkes’?’
‘Looks like it. Gate off the alleyway round back.’
‘Blood?’
‘Some.’
‘Have you tried ringing the bell?’
‘Thought I’d better wait for you, guv. I’ve kept an eye on the house: nobody’s been in or out. Burglar alarm looks switched on, curtains are closed. On the face of it they’re asleep still.’
She nodded towards the alley. ‘Is the scene secure?’
‘The dog man had some tape. We’ve cordoned it off.’
Peering past him, she could faintly see a length of blue and white police tape stretched across the far end of the alley. ‘Good,’ she nodded. ‘That’ll do until CSI get here. They are on their way, I take it?’
‘Any minute, guv.’
‘Right.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘They’ll see where to go, and make a start. What are we waiting for?’
He extended an arm in an ‘after you’ gesture, and Sophia led the way towards the Clarkes’ house. As they approached, she studied it. Brian’s assessment seemed correct. Nothing stirred. She wasn’t convinced. ‘A copper gets stabbed in their garden, ambulance and police sirens wailing right outside their front door, and they sleep through it?’ she said angrily, marching up the path. ‘Not likely.’
But by her third ring, no-one had answered. The sun was above the roofs now, the air filled with bird chorus. Amidst the clamour it was easy to fancy you heard movement inside. Then, in the street, came the far from imaginary sound of a taxi drawing up. They watched as Andrew Clarke paid the fare, got out and turned in at his garden gate. He stopped dead when he saw them.
‘This is DC Hunt,’ Sophia said. ‘Do you know why we’re here?’
Pale, he stood and stared. Behind him, the taxi pulled away. Brian took out a notebook and jotted its number down.
Sophia said, ‘May we come in, please?’
He nodded. Fumbling for his keys, he shambled up the path.
‘Guv,’ Brian said suddenly.
She turned. From behind the door came the sound of locks being unfastened. Then it opened. Brian stepped back. Sophia, face impassive, took a breath.
‘Debbie Clarke, I presume?’ she said to the girl in the doorway.
Irony piled upon irony, Sophia thought as she took another deep breath preparatory to opening the interview room door. Technically, as Debbie was a juvenile, she must have an appropriate adult present during questioning. With the benefit of hindsight, it had been agreed that for one of her parents to undertake this role would not be wise. It was unlikely Andrew and Charlotte Clarke could profitably be charged with anything more serious than wasting police time, but Sophia had made it clear she was in no mood to give them the opportunity to waste any more.
A social worker, then? Andrew Clarke had reacted with predictable outrage at the very notion. The indignity, if his neighbours should find out, seemed his main objection; those same neighbours who’d seen nothing, heard nothing, either last night or when the Bentons’ house had gone up in flames. And so it came down to a lawyer. But the Clarkes had none. In his arrogance, despite his frequent threats, Debbie’s father hadn’t seen the need. Spurning the duty list, he’d secured the services of one of the City firms he used at the building society. They did criminal work, and had a junior partner who didn’t object to driving out to Croydon on a Sunday. It seemed fitting that the interests of the daughter of Andrew Clarke, former neo-Nazi football hooligan, should be represented by a Mr Singh.
Sophia walked in and nodded to Kim Oliver, who’d brought Debbie through from the detention room. Kim leaned over to the recorder and started it as the DCI sat down. ‘Recommencing interview with Deborah Clarke,’ she announced. ‘Persons present are as before. Time is now 17.31. Miss Clarke, I need to remind you you’re still under caution.’
Sophia settled herself. ‘Feeling a bit better now, Debbie?’
Debbie Clarke nodded. After all that had happened to her, the experience of police custody seemed to terrify her more than anything. They’d had to suspend the interview three hours ago because of her uncontrollable crying. Hopefully a meal and some rest had calmed her down. She looked pale, shocked, ready to dive down inside the big roll neck of the white wool sweater she wore.
‘For the tape, Miss Clarke nods her head,’ Sophia said. She asked Debbie, ‘I understand the doctor’s had a look at you?’
‘Yes.’ It was a tiny voice. Debbie hugged herself. ‘Like I said, there was no need. It was all fake.’
‘Scary for you, all the same.’
‘Like I said.’ She started to shiver again. ‘If I hadn’t let them...’
And only your father’s neo-Nazi past, Sophia mused, gave you a choice. Edward Porter’s regard for his erstwhile comrade had, it seemed, saved his daughter’s life. Chances
were his intentions towards Debbie had indeed been murderous until her father’s plea for help had swayed him. Dead fugitives cannot talk. But neither, Andrew Clarke must have pointed out, do the police pursue them. It had been the start of an elaborate deception: the squat laid out like a lynching, the message on the answering machine, the faked Polaroid. The tarpaulin had caught any trace of the theatrical makeup and special effects gore that would have given the game away, and Sophia was kicking herself that she had been led astray by the presence of the blood. It was Meredith’s, after all, on a bed in the flat where he lived. The stain could have come from anything, a grazed knee even, and chances were he’d been telling the truth when he’d told them how he’d got the cut on his hand. Andrew Clarke’s heartrending cries at the bus stop had been prompted not by grief, but by the shame of seeing his daughter naked before strangers.
There were a couple of things that were still bothering Sophia about Debbie’s story, but she would come back to them. Right now, she wanted to get the timeline straight.
‘Earlier on,’ she said, ‘we got as far as Edward Porter taking you down to Leatherhead. You went straight there from the squat?’
Debbie hesitated before nodding.
‘Please say yes or no for the recording, Deborah.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did your parents know where you were?’
‘Mr Porter faxed Dad at work. Told him how to get in touch. I talked to him on the phone. He rang from a pub, in case you were listening in on his.’
Sophia glanced at Kim, who nodded. Andrew Clarke’s mysterious trip to the Keeper and Wicket.
‘How long have you been back home?’
‘Since last Saturday.’
‘We’re not talking about yesterday, are we? This is a week ago?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you’ve stayed hidden in the house all that time?’
‘I went into Croydon once, shopping, when Mum was out,’ Debbie said. ‘Had to. I was climbing the walls.’
‘Hardly surprising,’ Sophia agreed, with a twinge of resigned annoyance. In a town of three hundred thousand people, no-one had noticed a sixteen year old girl in a crowd. Even one wanted on suspicion of arson and murder. So much for publicity. She asked, ‘Why did Mr Porter bring you back?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I overheard him on the phone to Mr Quaife, shouting something about some lady.’
‘Lady?’
Debbie’s eyes widened in terror that perhaps she’d told this formidable policewoman something she didn’t want to hear. ‘That’s... that’s all I caught.’ Sophia nodded slowly, patiently, relaxing her. ‘Then he came upstairs and said to me, “Come on, I’m taking you home. We should’ve done this in the first place.”’
‘On Saturday morning? So you were home by, when?’
‘Afternoon some time.’
‘Did Mr Porter bring you home himself?’
‘Yeah. Dad flipped. I don’t think he was expecting me. He said the police... that you were watching the house. God knows where he’d got that from.’
Inscrutably, Sophia asked, ‘But Porter believed him?’
Debbie nodded. ‘Said not to worry. He told Dad to put the answerphone on and wait for a message, then do what it said. And make sure the police knew.’
He certainly had us going for a while, Sophia thought. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Kim scribble a note. She said, ‘Did you hear from Edward Porter again before last night?’
Debbie shook her head. Sophia frowned. Debbie said, ‘No.’
‘Do you know why they came?’
Abruptly, Debbie burst into tears again. From his breast pocket, Mr Singh produced an immaculately ironed primrose handkerchief. He said to her, ‘Would you like to stop again?’
‘Mr Singh,’ Sophia said, ‘if it’s all the same to you I’d rather press on. The quicker we finish, the less upset for your client.’
‘That’s up to her,’ he retorted. ‘How do you feel, Deborah?’
‘I’m OK,’ Debbie said, recovering. She handed back his handkerchief. ‘Thanks.’
‘Keep it,’ he smiled.
‘Debbie, one of my officers is seriously ill in hospital because of what happened last night,’ Sophia said gently. ‘I don’t believe it was anything directly to do with you, but it wasn’t just bad luck, either. Porter and Quaife were there at four a.m. for a reason.’
‘I know,’ Debbie sniffed.
‘Was it because you rang Luke?’
‘You know about that?’
‘We spoke to him this morning.’
‘Oh, God.’ She buried her face in her hands. ‘I tried to tell him I couldn’t help it, but he said he never wanted to see me again for what I’d done. He said his mum was on my head, and if Robin died that would be too.’ She looked up and sighed. ‘But then he’s told you that already.’
‘Yes, he has. But what’s that got to do with Edward Porter being there? Did your dad overhear?’
‘No, but I was upset. I had to talk to someone so I told my mum.’
‘When was this?’
‘Middle of the night.’ Fresh tears welled in her eyes. ‘It’s so stupid. I haven’t gone into Mum and Dad’s room like that since I was a kid. He was asleep but Mum went and woke him.’
‘And he rang Porter?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And?’
‘They turned up about two. I stayed in my room. The three of them just sat downstairs, talking about what to do. I think when the policewoman came they must’ve figured Luke had talked to her. That’s why they did what they did.’
Everyone stared at her.
‘I saw it. Out of my bedroom window. Mr Quaife... Mr Quaife hit her with his knife when she came through the gate. They tied her to the tree. Mr Porter talked to her. Then he walked off. Mr Quaife just stood there for a bit, watching. I thought he was waiting for her to bleed to death. She went all limp, like a little doll. I thought, she’s dead. She must be dead by now. Then suddenly he stopped and looked round, like he’d heard something. He let her go from the tree and dragged her through the back gate into the alley. He still had his knife, and he... It was like it was happening all over again. Only with the fire I just ran, but this time there was nowhere to run to, because they’d have found me again. I just had to watch... I couldn’t make him stop.’
‘It’s all right, Debbie.’ Sophia reached over and laid a hand over a tightly bunched fist. Catching Mr Singh’s pleading stare, she nodded. ‘It’s all right. We’ll break for a minute. Interview suspended, 17.48.’
Outside in the corridor, the two detectives stood in thoughtful silence, neither wanting to be the first to speak. At last Kim said, ‘Looks like Luke Benton’s had a lucky escape, guv.’
‘They’d have paid him a visit if he hadn’t already been picked up, that’s for sure.’
‘Instead Nina nearly got herself killed ‘cause of him being pissed.’
‘Nina nearly got herself killed - ’ Sophia began, as near to anger as Kim had ever known her. She sighed, shook her head and said, ‘Nina called the CAD room at least half an hour before you found her. Why, in that time, if she knew there might be trouble - ?’
‘Maybe she never got the chance.’
‘Maybe, but we won’t know, will we? Until she’s well enough to tell us.’
Kim looked at her watch. ‘Shouldn’t we’ve heard something by now?’
‘The hospital have strict orders to let me know at once,’ Sophia said. ‘I want to know exactly where we are before Debbie starts signing statements.’ She turned to go, then paused. ‘Kim?’
‘Guv?’
‘Something caught your attention. I saw you writing it down.’
‘The photo again,’ Kim said.
‘Explain.’
‘Well, we know it was taken Thursday at the squat, right? But Porter didn’t use it till Saturday night, to throw us off. If Debbie’s to be believed, all that was last minute. So,’ Kim said, ‘what’d they originally want the
photo for?’
Staff Nurse Hamida Aziz (it said on her name tag) told Sandra Jones, ‘Yes, she came through surgery very well. Less damage than we first feared.’ She said it as if she, personally, had led the operating team.
‘She’s gonna be OK?’
‘Physically, yes.’
Sandra said nothing. She stood and waited. Eventually Nurse Aziz figured it out.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, springing to life. ‘Second door to your right. But you must remember she is still in recovery. I can only allow you five minutes.’
‘Thanks.’ Sandra gave her a look that suggested she was about to experience the longest five minutes of her career, turned and followed her directions.
Even with intensive care beds at a premium, it had to be a good sign that Nina had been moved to a private room on a general ward. While speaking to Nurse Aziz, Sandra had snatched a peek behind her desk, where monitors hooked up to Nina’s vital signs waited on constant alert for trouble.
Nina was not alone. In a chair beside the bed a young woman sat reading a paperback. Lucia Tyminski’s kinship to her sister was obvious, despite the thickly kohl-lined eyes and bleached gelled hair that clashed oddly with the white ribbed t-shirt and blue sundress she wore. In height and build they were much alike; the more assured way Lucia looked and carried herself was what marked her apart. At the sound of the door she looked up. ‘Hi,’ she said, recognising Sandra.
Sandra closed the door quietly. ‘No Paul?’
‘He’s been here all day,’ Lucia said. ‘We sent him home for some kip. My mum and me are gonna take it in turns to do nights. My other sister, too, when she gets here.’
‘You’ll have Nurse Aziz out of a job.’
‘I don’t reckon she’s in much of a state to talk.’ Lucia glanced at Nina, who lay still and silent, eyes closed. A drip fed into her arm, a canula thrust rudely up her nose. Not a mark on her, Sandra thought, startled, looking into the pale face. But she guessed the hospital gown covered a rather nastier truth.
‘Has she...?’
‘She was awake for a bit when Paul was here. Very groggy, though.’