Ayala bid Rachel farewell and made a beeline for the hotel lobby so he could cut Laura off before she made it to a taxi.
‘Laura! Wait up!’ Ayala shouted after her.
She turned, looking around as if she hoped to see a friendly face, and frowned when she saw Ayala. ‘You, again!’
‘Yep!’ said Ayala cheerfully. ‘Me again. Nice place. Tim must be generous.’
‘He is.’
‘Good for him. Can we have a chat somewhere private? Do you have a room here?’
Laura looked offended. ‘Why would I have a room? You think I’m cheating on him, don’t you? Like that silly brunette who keeps following me around. She thinks I haven’t noticed. What do I care if she’s photographing me?’
If Laura knew, it was possible she’d changed her behaviour to hide whatever she was up to.
‘Right,’ said Ayala. ‘How about the hotel bar? It should be deserted at eleven o’clock in the morning.’
It wasn’t. By the time they had bought a round of drinks and found a snug hideaway in the corner, the bar was filling up with the early lunch crowd, the late mimosa crowd, and the perpetual alcoholics.
‘So, what do you want this time?’
‘You lied to us, Laura. You left your apartment that night.’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Will Tim confirm that?’ Ayala asked. ‘Surely, he notices when you’re not in the same bed.’
Laura said nothing, opting to take a sip from her chai tea instead.
‘So, you did leave the flat, then. Why?’
‘I was smoking, okay? Tim doesn’t know it, but I sneak downstairs to have a crafty cigarette in the gardens.’
‘Why wouldn’t you just smoke on your balcony?’
‘Tim would see me there,’ Laura said. ‘It’s a huge pet peeve for him. His nan died of emphysema or something, so he endlessly lectures anyone who smokes. Can’t a girl have a secret ciggie every once in a while?’
Ayala shrugged. He wasn’t one to talk. His own addiction to nicotine had been a lifelong battle, and it wasn’t a battle he was winning. ‘So, you didn’t go back to the boat that night?’
‘No, of course not. I had a few ciggies and then came back inside because it was cold.’
‘Why were you gone from the flat for so long?’ Ayala asked.
‘So Tim wouldn’t notice,’ Laura said. ‘I was giving him enough time to fall asleep so I could slip back inside, gargle some mouthwash, stick my jumper in the washing machine, and slip into bed.’
‘That sounds like a lot of work just to keep smoking a secret.’
‘I’ve got a lot to lose, okay? Tim has been wonderful for me. He got me out of Ilford, he puts me up in his penthouse flat, and I get to spend every day shopping and seeing London. I can’t lose this life.’
‘Give up the ciggies, then.’
‘I’m trying.’ Laura rolled up her sleeve to reveal a nicotine patch on her upper arm.
‘When was your last one?’
‘A week ago. I’m dying for a smoke. I didn’t kill my best friend. I wasn’t sleeping with Mark. I just like a cigarette. Now, will you get off my case? I’ve got a lunch date with the girls to get to.’
And with that, she gulped the last of her chai tea, fixed her sleeve, and left Ayala alone in the hotel bar.
It could be an elaborate lie, but it tallied with what Rachel had told him. Ayala pulled out his phone and texted Mayberry: Keep an eye out for any shots of Laura smoking among the photos that you’ve been emailed. See if any of them are more recent than last week. Cheers. B.
***
The big guy was scary. He had a beard that made him look a bit like a lumberjack, and a booming voice that carried across the room even when he wasn’t talking particularly loudly.
Mayberry approached him cautiously. ‘E-excuse m-me?’
‘What d’ya want, laddie?’
‘I n-need to sort th-through these ph-photos.’ Mayberry handed the big man a thumb drive onto which he’d copied all the photos.
‘Let’s have a look, then, laddie.’ Brodie took the USB and plugged it in. He then motioned for Mayberry to grab an empty chair from the other side of the room and pull it up beside his desk. ‘Right, here we are. Good lad, you’ve kept the metadata intact. That’ll make this a bit easier. What’re ya looking for?’
‘N-not sure,’ Mayberry stammered. ‘Can you use f-facial recognition to group the photos by the p-people in them?’
‘I can, laddie, but it’ll take a while. You good to wait?’
Mayberry nodded, and Brodie got to work. The photos began to whizz across the screen, each file flying into a folder based on whom the program found in each image.
Brodie turned away from the computer and pulled a biscuit tin from a drawer on his left. ‘Biscuit, laddie?’
Mayberry took one, stammered his thanks, and bit into a piece of butter shortbread.
‘It’s good, isn’t it? My lass makes it for me every week. Don’t know what I did to deserve such a woman. It must be the beard.’ Brodie mimed stroking his beard, almost like a Bond villain, making Mayberry laugh. ‘You got a lady, Detective Mayberry?’
Mayberry nodded. Brodie was probably the only person in the building who didn’t know he was engaged to the chief’s daughter.
‘Keep a tight hold on her, laddie. There’s nothing in this world like being with the right woman.’ At the sound of a beep, Brodie turned his attention back to the screen. ‘Right. That’s done. Want me to go through these with you? I assume you want to start with your murder suspects? Don’t look at me like that. I’m not some clueless nerd, laddie.’
‘P-please.’
They found Laura easily enough. She was in most of the photos. Just as Ayala had said, she was a smoker. ‘C-can you f-find the m-most recent photo of her s-smoking?’
‘One sec. Yep. Last Thursday.’
Almost a week ago. Mayberry texted Ayala back with the confirmation. That made Laura’s story credible. If she had been smoking the night Mark went missing, it wouldn’t take much to stretch that narrative into reasonable doubt.
‘W-what about p-photos from the n-night of the m-murder?’
Brodie clicked through again, this time using the metadata to isolate only the pictures taken that night. He displayed a handful of shots taken that afternoon side by side.
‘Th-that one!’ Mayberry pointed. ‘C-can you make it b-bigger?’
He did, and The Guilty Pleasure came into view. Laura could be seen through an open window, as could Tim. Brodie zoomed in on the people.
‘No!’ Mayberry cried.
Brodie looked confused, but he zoomed back out. Mayberry pointed to the edge of the picture.
‘The other boat?’ Brodie said. When Mayberry nodded, he zoomed in. It was Jake Sanders’ boat The Mobile Office moored up by The Guilty Pleasure stern-to-bow.
At the edge of the frame, Mayberry could see Jake. He was with a woman on board the boat. They were kissing, with her hands snaked up around his neck. She was much older than Jake, with grey hair, veiny hands, and a brow marked with lines.
Who was she? Had she been there all night?
‘Are there a-any more of h-her?’
‘That’s your lot, laddie. I take it she hasna come up in your investigation before?’
Mayberry shook his head. There was another suspect, after all.
Chapter 50: Who Is She?
Wednesday 29th June, 13:00
They reconvened in the Incident Room after lunch to discuss Mayberry’s findings. Rafferty was notably absent, though Morton wasn’t surprised to discover that his wife had been behind that. Sarah was always putting people first and his investigations second. A day or two wouldn’t hurt too much, though.
‘We need to find this woman,’ Morton said bluntly. ‘No ifs, no buts. Has anyone seen anything that might explain who she is and why she was aboard The Mobile Office with Jake on the night of the murder?’
‘Could it be his mum?’ Ayala suggested.
Morton mimed being sick. ‘You kiss your own mother like that? No. Definitely not. Besides, his mother is dead. Cancer took her years ago. She went before their dad did.’
‘The Sanders family name seems cursed,’ Ayala said. ‘Dad’s dead. Mum’s dead. Big brother is murdered. Little brother offs himself. That’s seriously bad juju.’
‘No kidding. We need to find her. I want you both looking through Jake’s correspondence.’
‘Again? We already did!’ Ayala protested.
‘Yes, but last time, you were looking for evidence of financial malfeasance. This time, you’re looking for any messages he could have sent to a lover. They had to arrange their meeting on the boat somehow, so start with his phone. Check WhatsApp, Messenger, Jake’s email, whatever the kids are using these days. Find out who she is and bring her in. Do it fast, because if she can alibi Jake, we’re running out of suspects.’
Chapter 51: Freedom
Friday 1st July, 21:00
The seventy-two hours of Faye’s psych hold seemed to fly by. Faye would not say another word, no matter what Jensen did. She ate, she drank, and she slept. She ticked all the boxes for ‘able to look after herself’, but, as far as Jensen could tell, she didn’t fit neatly within the illnesses defined in the so-called Psychiatrist’s Bible, the fifth edition of The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.
She wasn’t, in Jensen’s opinion, a danger to anyone. She was quick to anger and would no doubt lash out if a threat presented itself, but that alone wasn’t enough to preclude her release, whatever Rafferty might think.
There was a small mercy. She had nowhere to go. The women’s centres nearby were too full, or so they said. Few would want to take on the liability of a woman with an undiagnosed mental illness and a proven history of violence.
At her release, Faye was back to being sweet-natured and quiet. But she abhorred being touched and would not even shake Jensen’s hand.
‘Where are you going to go, Faye?’ Jensen asked her.
She only shrugged and mumbled something about Miss Ashley. Fat chance of that. Rafferty was still livid.
Morton arrived on the scene five minutes before Faye was due to be released.
‘David! Don’t you have anything better to do on a Friday night?’ Jensen asked.
‘Don’t you?’ Morton shot back. ‘I assume you’ve found grounds to keep her here.’
‘I’m afraid not. In four minutes’ time, we can’t legally hold her.’
‘Coward,’ Morton said. ‘That’s a bad call, and you know it. She’s clearly not healthy. Do you seriously think it’s all a big act?’
‘I don’t know what to think. I’ve been doing this a long time, and I’ve never seen a patient quite like her. If it were up to me, I’d keep her in a hospital, study her more, and try to find a way to help.’
‘But it’s not.’
‘No, it’s not. Three minutes.’
‘Where is she?’
‘In her room.’
‘Take me there,’ Morton ordered.
As the clock ticked down, Faye was pacing in her room. Exactly on time, Jensen opened the door. ‘You’re free to go,’ he said.
‘Not so fast,’ Morton contradicted him. ‘Faye Atkins, you’re under arrest for wounding Patrick Rafferty, contrary to section twenty of the Offences Against the Person Act 1861.’
Morton snapped handcuffs around her wrists, watched her puzzled demeanour dissolve into one of steely silence, gave her the standard arrest spiel, and frogmarched her from the building.
***
There was a lawyer waiting when Morton arrived at Scotland Yard with Faye in tow.
‘Detective Morton?’ she said.
Morton turned to see Genevieve Hollis, a lawyer he’d crossed paths with before. She was known for being scrupulously honest and quick to defend anyone she thought had been denied due process. ‘What do you want?’ he asked warily.
‘I represent Faye Atkins.’
‘Impossible! She wasn’t arrested ten minutes ago.’
‘Quite,’ Hollis said. ‘I took a call saying you were arresting a woman with mental health issues, and I happened to be in chambers over in Holborn. Is that true?’
‘Our experts were unable to diagnose anything wrong with her,’ Morton said tersely.
‘Then, we shall agree to disagree. Where is my client?’
‘Being processed. I’ll have her brought up to the interview suite as soon as possible so you can talk to her,’ Morton said.
***
Before Morton could face Hollis, he had to do the unthinkable: he had to ruin Kieran O’Connor’s Friday night off.
There was no doubt in Morton’s mind that Hollis would argue that Faye was unfit to stand trial. It was an odd move to raise it so early. Most lawyers would raise it later on, so as to keep alive the possibility of total acquittal. By making the assertion of mental illness so early on, Hollis was almost, but not officially, conceding Faye’s guilt.
There was an inherent contradiction in the assertion. Faye had been examined by a police-appointed psychiatrist and found insufficiently impaired to be detained. She could not be both unfit to plead and fit to look after herself. It was a contradiction Morton couldn’t reconcile.
He dialled the prosecutor’s mobile number and prayed that Kieran would hear it ring.
***
Kieran arrived a little before midnight. He was almost entirely sober, but his breath smelt of mints.
‘Are you sure you’re up to this, Kieran?’ Morton asked him. ‘Hollis and Faye are waiting for us.’
The prosecutor nodded. He’d taken on bigger cases while less sober, not that he’d ever admit that in the cold light of day.
Before long, the four of them were in an interview suite once again. Kieran and Morton sat on one side of the table, while Hollis sat beside her client.
‘She’s not a mentally disordered offender,’ Kieran said.
‘I didn’t say she was,’ Hollis replied, tight-lipped. It wasn’t what she’d said to Morton ten minutes earlier.
‘You didn’t?’ Kieran said sceptically.
‘No. What I’m saying is that she’s not guilty. She has no recollection of the crime you allege she committed. No mens rea, no conviction,’ Hollis said simply, referring to the required intention.
‘You think that’ll work?’ Kieran smirked. ‘The “I don’t remember it” defence? If she’s not a mentally disordered offender, and there’s nothing physically wrong with her, how are you going to explain her amnesia?’
Hollis slid a piece of paper across the desk. ‘This is the formal report that your Doctor Jensen wrote about my client. As you can see, it is dated for today. Could you read the last line for the record?’
Kieran skimmed it, and his eyes narrowed. How had she got hold of Jensen’s report? ‘Didn’t you just deny she was mentally ill?’
The defence barrister’s eyes twinkled. ‘No. All I said was that I didn’t make that claim, you did. I didn’t say that she wasn’t, either. You inferred that from my silence.’
Morton watched the prosecutor try to spin the wheels-within-wheels logic. She had said she hadn’t said it, not that she didn’t agree. After having had a few drinks, it was almost beyond Kieran’s comprehension, and he took a full thirty seconds to think about his next move.
‘Then, do you agree that your client should be found a place in a mental hospital to be given treatment?’ Kieran asked, trying to avoid anything too combative.
‘I think she should be put somewhere where she can safely be given treatment. I think that place is at home.’
‘At home? She sank her home,’ Kieran said.
‘That is none of your concern,’ Hollis said. ‘According to your own expert’s report, pursuing criminal charges “may lead to a considerable worsening of the patient’s mental health”. She’s not fit for trial, and you know it. As I see it, you’ve got two choices: let my client go, or face the mother of all civil suits. Which w
ill it be?’
Jensen had back-stabbed them.
Kieran looked accusingly at Morton as if to ask why he’d been dragged in if this report existed. ‘I’ll need to get an independent copy of this report.’
Hollis gave Kieran a contemptuous glare. ‘You don’t have your own expert’s report? My, the Crown Prosecution Service is disorganized.’
‘Interview terminated,’ Morton interjected, ‘at 11:51 p.m., Friday July 1st.’
Kieran and Morton left the room, and Kieran began ranting.
‘What the feck was that all about? Why didn’t I know about this report?’
‘I didn’t know, either,’ Morton said darkly. ‘But, I guess we now know who tipped Hollis off. Jensen.’
‘We’re going to have to let her go,’ Kieran said.
‘Rafferty won’t like that.’
‘Then, nail her for the murder. You still think she did it, don’t you?’
Morton didn’t have an answer anymore.
Chapter 52: Old Friends
Saturday 2nd July 03:00
Laura and Tim were awakened by an unexpected visitor. When the buzzer went off, neither of them stirred straight away.
‘You going to get that, babe?’ Laura asked eventually.
‘Only if it doesn’t stop,’ Tim replied sleepily.
It didn’t, and five minutes later Tim was scrambling to get dressed. He buzzed Faye in and met her in the lobby.
‘Faye, what’re you doing here?’
Faye looked tired. There were bags under her eyes, her hair was a mess, and she was soaked through. ‘I’ve got nowhere else to go, Tim. Can you help me?’
‘Come on,’ Tim heard himself say.
She looked so pitiful that he doubted anyone could have refused her request. He led her into the elevator, swiped his wallet against the contactless security reader, and then they ascended in silence.
Laura was waiting for them at the front door. ‘Faye!’ She rushed over to hug the bedraggled woman. ‘What happened?’
‘The boat... it sank,’ Faye said.
‘Oh my God. Tim, fetch some blankets from the airing cupboard, would you? And a towel. Oh, and one of my spare dressing gowns. She can’t stay in wet clothes.’
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