Today had been her first proper photo shoot in weeks. The boardroom where she had set up for simple corporate headshots felt too small, with no escape. Every time a male solicitor walked through the door, disgruntled that they had been called in on a Saturday, her heart had pounded in her chest as the question whirled in her mind like a maelstrom. Are you him? She pushed herself up from the sofa, swaying on her feet. She hadn’t eaten all day, but it wasn’t food she wanted.
Sarah walked through to the kitchen and poured herself another generous measure of Jack Daniel’s. She took a swig. She was determined to sleep tonight. The sound of the doorbell made her choke. She put the glass on the worktop and walked to the top of the stairs. She crouched down but couldn’t see anyone through the obscured glass of her front door. She crept down the stairs, carefully avoiding the floorboards that creaked, relieved now that the bulb had blown, for the darkness that covered her. She approached the door, her rushing blood deafening in her ears. ‘Who is it?’ she asked, her voice trembling. She stood and waited but no one answered.
As she turned, something on the floor caught on her tights. It looked like a business card but bigger. It was about four inches square and blank. She bent down, picked it up and turned it over in her hand. The note fluttered to the floor as she staggered backwards, tripping on the bottom step, landing hard on her back. She pushed herself into a sitting position and stared at the piece of paper. It had landed face up, a scrawl of words, written in black ink, underlined four times.
She turned and scrambled up the stairs to the kitchen, snatching the phone from the hallway as she passed, and punched in Toni’s number. As she waited for her to answer she slid down until she was sitting on the floor, huddled against her Ikea cabinets, the yellow plastic cold and hard against her back.
‘Bennett will call me back,’ she said, slumping down into Toni’s sofa, reaching for her wine glass and waving it in Toni’s general direction.
‘But surely they must do more? What did she say about the note?’ Toni asked, filling Sarah’s glass and settling herself on a large blue armchair.
Sarah crossed her legs and rested back on the sofa. It was almost as old and knackered as hers, the springs creaking every time she moved. ‘Bennett said I shouldn’t worry, that “contact in cases like these sometimes spikes after a report”. She said she would call me later and I can go into the station next week . . . if I want to.’
‘If you want to?’ Toni threw up her hands, spilling droplets of white wine on herself and the mauve carpet. ‘It is ridiculous, outrageous. They should be helping you. They should be stopping this man. It’s not right.’ Toni pushed her mass of black hair off her face with what must have been a wine-soaked hand.
Sarah managed a half-hearted smile. To see Toni beside herself with rage on her behalf was comforting. It proved that someone cared. She had made the mistake of phoning her mother for support, perhaps even an invitation to come and stay. However, instead of understanding or sympathy she had received a tirade of doubt and disdain. ‘Don’t be so hysterical, Sarah. It’s probably just a note from a neighbour or a passing tradesman, a window cleaner drumming up business. Your father and I are inundated with cards and flyers from competing firms. It’s disgraceful, aggressive marketing. It shouldn’t be allowed. I don’t have the time to sort through mountains of junk mail . . .’ Sarah had tuned out the rest of her mother’s complaints.
‘My mum thinks it’s from a neighbour or some overzealous window cleaner,’ she said, taking a large gulp of wine. Toni had tried to entice her with crisps and dips from her well-stocked cupboards but Sarah couldn’t face anything solid.
‘I am sorry to say this, bella, but your mother is an idiot.’ Toni looked at her, lips pursed, seemingly waiting for a challenge to the accusation. ‘The policewoman must do something. This man should be in jail.’
Sarah couldn’t disagree. Over the last month her grip on her home and work life had slipped beyond her control. Her earnings had disappeared to practically nothing. She had enough in her savings account to cover the mortgage but for how much longer? How long would she be a hostage in her own home? Feeling his presence, knowing he had touched her letterbox to post his poisoned note made her want to vomit. ‘What am I meant to do now?’
‘You stay here. That is what you will do. You are not going back to that flat until this policewoman has seen the note. She will read it, she will see you.’ Toni came and sat next to her and pulled her into a suffocating hug.
She thought about what Bennett had said, that contact sometimes spiked after a report. But that would mean he knew she had reported him and the only way he could know that was if the police had already spoken to him and not told her. No, they couldn’t have; she only made the report yesterday. Sarah closed her eyes tight trying to squeeze away the realization that was chilling her stomach. The only way he could know about the police was if he had been there, watching her.
15
26 January – Sunday
Lockyer closed the door to the interview room and pulled out one of the two orange plastic chairs facing William Hodgson. As he sat down he began flicking through the file Jane had given him that morning, running his eyes over Hodgson’s initial statement. Penny had been over to Foster Advertising to take it last week. ‘Fancy’ was the word she had used to describe Hodgson’s office.
Walsh had failed to provide fingerprints or DNA as yet, but two of his three alibis seemed solid. The only alibi that was even remotely shaky was for the night of Debbie’s murder. Walsh had initially said he was at home with his wife, but when Jane had made it clear they would need to speak to Mrs Walsh to verify his statement, he changed his story. He had been with his chiropractor, all night. The woman had confirmed it, but it would need to be double checked. Lovers lied.
Debbie’s boss was hardly an intimidating figure. He was five foot nine at most, wearing a navy-blue tailored suit. From the cut of the jacket, Lockyer would hazard a guess that it was handmade. Not surprising, really. A guy like Hodgson, taking home a six-figure salary, wouldn’t be a likely customer at M&S. Without thinking, he straightened his own jacket. ‘Good morning, Mr Hodgson. My name is Detective Inspector Mike Lockyer.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Detective,’ Hodgson said, without so much as a flicker of anxiety.
‘My colleague will be along in a moment and then we can get started. We appreciate you coming in on such short notice.’
‘Not at all. I am happy to help in any way I can. It’s an awful situation. The office is still reeling from the shock.’ Hodgson spoke with an air of disdain, as if Debbie had been the victim of some minor infraction and he was, in his capacity as managing director of Foster Advertising, trying to deal with it sensitively. It clearly didn’t come naturally. Hodgson shifted in his seat as he straightened his tie. There was no warmth or compassion in his eyes.
‘Murder is a devastating crime, Mr Hodgson. It affects people in different ways,’ he said, waiting for Hodgson’s response to the word ‘murder’. Nothing.
However, Hodgson’s body language was beginning to contradict his calm expression. He was fingering his wedding band and seemed to have found something on the back wall to focus on. Most people were unnerved by the interview rooms at Lewisham nick, even if they had nothing whatsoever to be worried about. Each room had white walls, uncomfortable plastic chairs, a nailed-down table and a large glass mirror along one wall. Even the uninitiated recognized a two-way screen when they saw one. Hodgson looked pale under the harsh strip lighting.
‘Of course, it’s very sad. I’m sure Debbie will be sorely missed,’ Hodgson said with not one ounce of sincerity in his voice.
Despite himself, Lockyer could feel his anger surfacing. The muscles across his shoulders were solid, forcing a pain up his neck and over his scalp. He wondered how Hodgson had treated Debbie when she worked for him. The poor girl didn’t seem to have more than a handful of people who really cared about her. Lockyer cleared his throat and sat back in his chair, will
ing Penny to arrive so they could get started. Jane was already conducting her second interview with Stacey Clemments, Debbie’s best friend, in an interview room three doors down. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and he turned as Penny walked in and came to sit next to him.
‘Mr Hodgson, you know my colleague, Detective Constable Penelope Groves. She will be sitting in on the interview.’
‘Pleased to see you again, Miss Groves,’ Hodgson said, giving her what Lockyer assumed was his best smile, showing off his impossibly white, straight teeth. He felt sorry for any woman who had to work with this prick.
Penny pressed the button on the recorder and gave Hodgson a rundown of how the interview would work – that he was here to provide further information on Deborah Stevens, as her employer. A red light on the digital recorder flashed to indicate they were now on the record. Hodgson didn’t look perturbed at the idea of being taped. In fact he seemed to have regained his initial composure.
‘You are not under arrest and are free to leave at any time,’ Lockyer said, searching for any reaction.
Hodgson just stared straight ahead. ‘Thank you, Detective. How can I help you today?’
‘Mr Hodgson, how long was Deborah Stevens in your employ?’ he asked.
‘Six months.’ Hodgson sat back in his seat.
‘Did you interview Miss Stevens yourself?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘In your first statement . . .’ Lockyer glanced down at the folder open in his lap, ‘you said that Miss Stevens was your personal assistant. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Hodgson said.
‘But you didn’t interview her?’
‘No.’
‘When did you first meet Miss Stevens?’ Let him try to answer yes or no to that question.
‘On her second interview,’ Hodgson said, looking from Lockyer to Penny. He seemed to be relaxing further into his role of helpful employer.
‘So, you did interview her, then?’ Lockyer asked.
‘No,’ Hodgson said.
‘Do you think you could elaborate on that, Mr Hodgson? I am finding it difficult to understand how meeting someone on a second interview isn’t classed as “interviewing”.’ This was going to take longer than he wanted or needed, and he was already keen to know how Jane was getting on with Clemments.
Hodgson looked at Penny when he answered Lockyer’s question. ‘Originally she was interviewed as an admin assistant for my team but I decided, given the lack of experience on her CV, that she would be better placed starting off as a secretary, directly under me, where her progress could be closely monitored.’ Hodgson turned his attention back to Lockyer. ‘So, when she was called in for the second interview, I went to meet her. To check she was suitable for the position.’
‘And was she?’ Lockyer asked.
‘Was she what?’
‘Suitable for the position.’
‘Yes. She was friendly, enthusiastic and keen to learn.’
‘What was her exact role in your agency?’
Hodgson seemed to consider the question for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. Maybe it was hard, trying to recall what people less important than him did with their days. ‘Her role was to assist me and the outdoor team. My team. We specialize in outdoor-space advertising: buses, trains, Tube, that kind of thing. She was a PA, of sorts. I wanted her to learn the ropes before having face-to-face contact with my clients.’
So, if he was talking about work he was able to muster up three whole sentences. ‘And would you say, Mr Hodgson, that she was good at her job?’
‘Yes. She struggled at first. She was young, new to the industry, but I managed to bring her on,’ Hodgson said with real pride in his voice. It was the first time Lockyer had heard or seen genuine emotion, although he suspected it was from what Hodgson perceived as his own achievements rather than Debbie’s.
‘When you say “bring her on”, what do you mean by that, Mr Hodgson?’ Lockyer asked.
‘I explained how the advertising business works and what was expected of her. She was, as I say, keen to learn. I have been building my agency for twenty years. We are one of the leading advertising agencies in London. I have a lot to offer my employees, and I expect them to learn and excel in everything they do.’
‘Would you say Deborah Stevens, once she had settled in, excelled?’ He knew this wasn’t how she had been described by other colleagues. Several had said they were unsure what she did, other than run around after Hodgson.
‘Excelled . . . I wouldn’t say that, no, but she was certainly improving. Some people take longer than others to pick up the pace of things.’
Lockyer frowned, aware that during their entire conversation Hodgson had talked quite happily about Debbie in the past tense. ‘Can you tell me your whereabouts on the night of the 14th of December, the 4th of January and the 22nd of January, Mr Hodgson?’ he asked.
Hodgson reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out an iPhone, navigating to his diary using just his thumb. ‘The 14th of December, you said?’ Hodgson asked, not bothering to look up.
‘That’s right, between the hours of 21.00 and 02.00.’
‘I have given this information . . . but, as I said, I am happy to help. I was at a dinner function in the City with four business associates. It went on until at least eleven and then I drove home. I was home with my family from 11.30, 11.45 at the latest.’
‘Did you drink at this “dinner function”?’
‘No, Detective. I like to keep a clear head when I’m talking business, even in a social situation. I am sure you appreciate that, in your profession?’
‘And the other dates?’ Lockyer asked, ignoring Hodgson’s attempts to goad him.
Hodgson continued to flick through his phone, a smile creeping onto his face. ‘That’s right. On the 4th of January I was attending a Lord Mayor’s function. I couldn’t confirm the number of guests, but in excess of fifty, if I had to guess. They are always well-attended gatherings.’ Hodgson looked up at Lockyer and then gave Penny a nod and a smile. And the 22nd . . . let me see. Ah, yes. I was attending the Metropolitan Police’s Annual Advertising dinner. I have worked with the MPS for many years now.’ Hodgson’s smile widened.
Lockyer hadn’t spotted that when he had read through the transcript of Hodgson’s first interview. Hodgson certainly had friends in high places. ‘Could you excuse me for a moment, Mr Hodgson? Constable, can you pause the session, please?’ He stood but kept his eyes on Penny.
‘Yes, sir. Interview suspended at 09.25,’ she said, stopping the digital recording.
As he pulled the door of the interview room closed he rubbed his forehead. So far there was absolutely no connection to any of the other victims, but that didn’t mean one wouldn’t be found. In the same way that Walsh had been too nervous, too emotional, Hodgson seemed too comfortable, too confident. He needed to find something to unsettle the guy.
Lockyer knocked on the door of the interview room and waited.
‘Yes.’ He heard Jane call out.
He turned the handle, pushed open the door and poked his head through the gap. ‘You got a second?’ he asked, glancing at the girl sitting on the other side of the table. Stacey Clemments didn’t look a day over twelve.
‘Of course, sir,’ Jane said, pushing her chair back and joining him in the hallway.
He waited for the door to close before speaking. ‘So, how’s it going?’
‘Good,’ Jane said in a hushed voice. ‘She’s pretty nervous but I think she’s being truthful, so far. Do you want to sit in?’
Lockyer wanted to know more about Debbie from someone who actually cared about her, something that he could use to push Hodgson off balance. ‘Yes, I will. Just for a few minutes,’ he said, his hand already on the door handle.
After the introductions he sat back in his chair, to give Jane space to work and Stacey space to breathe. The young girl looked about ready to collapse. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes huge,
like a startled animal. He listened as Jane talked to her, her voice soothing, her words supportive, encouraging. There was a knack in interviews like this. If you could build on a level of trust there was no end to what people would tell you. Jane was a master. She was far better at this aspect of the job than he was and he was more than happy to admit it as he watched Stacey wipe a tear from her chin, nod and start to talk.
‘I’d seen her two days before,’ Stacey said, swallowing. ‘We’d been to The Ivy House, listened to a load of performance poets and a band . . . well, sort of a band,’ she said, closing her eyes as if to remember. When she opened them she looked totally different, almost defiant. ‘You may as well know we were smoking, smoking gear, I mean. I guess you test her hair for that kinda thing. It wasn’t a regular thing, not every day or anything, but her mother didn’t know, doesn’t know. You don’t have to tell her, do you?’
As he listened to Jane reassuring the teenager he was struck by just how young Stacey sounded. He imagined Debbie had been much the same; a small squeak to her voice, a strong south-east London accent. He thought about Megan. She was the same age as Debbie and Stacey. When she left uni and went out to work, if that was her decision, would she find it as hard? He looked over at Stacey as she talked and realized just how vulnerable Debbie had been. She would never have seen him coming.
‘We mainly went out locally, The Ivy House, EDT, The Bishop, Liquorice . . . places like that,’ Stacey said, counting off the different pubs on her fingers.
‘Is there a group of you?’ Jane asked.
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