by Caz Frear
“When did Dyer get back in contact?”
“She turned up at the school last Tuesday morning. She’d obviously been keeping tabs on me over the years.”
So while Parnell and I were standing in a field in Cambridgeshire, antsy and wet and listening to a local DC’s opinions on highfalutin dog names, Dyer was already taking care of business.
Serena’s rubbing her chest, the memory of seeing Dyer again as real as indigestion. “She said it hadn’t been released yet, but it was pretty much confirmed that they’d found Holly Kemp’s body and I’d almost certainly be reinterviewed. My legs nearly gave way. I hadn’t thought about it in years, see. I know that sounds bad, but I’m good at compartmentalizing—I had to be, living with the pressure of being an informant—and I’d put it all behind me. I honestly felt like a different person, and then suddenly there she was, reminding me of my past, of my bad side, the worst thing I’d ever done.” Her eyes are back on the water bottle. “She was calm, but I think that was for my benefit. She said all I needed to do was stick to the story, that I’d done well back then and I’d be even better this time around. I was even more of a ‘perfect witness’ now, apparently—a mum, a lovely, wholesome, experienced primary school teacher. Unimpeachable—that was the word she used. As long as I repeated everything with complete confidence, it would all be fine, she said. But it wasn’t, was it? And it never will be.”
Renée opens her mouth, but Serena looks up sharply, cutting her off.
“You see, people talk about atonement, about wiping the slate clean, moving on, all that. And it sounds great, of course it does, but it’s rubbish. It’s just dumb denial. Because once you make one bad decision in life—and I mean a really bad decision—you’re never really free of it. It might be manageable for chunks of time, but it’s never fine. It’ll always come back to bite you.”
Her words punch me in the solar plexus.
Me and Serena: telling lies to save our careers, then telling more lies to protect the people we love.
“Right, I’ve heard enough.”
I stand up abruptly, then power over to the door before Serena Bailey can make one more pronouncement that confirms, once and for all, that I’ve got more in common with the criminals than the victims I represent.
30
Craving solitude, I detour to the bathroom, then the vending machine, then I snag a rare patch of shade at the back of the station, guzzling down a can of Fanta while checking messages on my phone. I have two. One from Aiden—a Statue of Liberty emoji that I don’t have the headspace to deal with right now, followed by a request to pick up loo roll, which I will if I actually make it home tonight. The other message is from Dad:
Dinner with me and Ange Friday night?? You choose where. Up to you whether you bring A xx
The invite winds me. After the events of the day, I’d kind of forgotten about keeping that side of the bargain, and I certainly didn’t expect Dad to cash his chips in so quickly. I spend five minutes writing, then deleting, various excuses before shooting back a lily-livered response.
Maybe, I’ll let you know x
I go back inside, forgoing the lift and flying up the stairs to the fourth-floor corridor. By the time I reach the incident room, bursting through the door like a cowboy entering a saloon, Steele and Parnell are back. Parnell’s on the phone.
“So yeah, Serena’s sob story is all well and good,” Steele is saying, sitting at my desk, applying my 99p hand cream. “It lands Dyer well and truly in the frame for a whole load of serious charges, but it doesn’t answer the main question—did Simon Fellows kill Holly and did Dyer help cover it up?” Her face contorts in disgust. “And seriously, if Dyer gives one more ‘no comment’ to that question, I might be up for a serious charge myself.”
“I still can’t believe it,” says Flowers, as dazed as I’ve ever heard him. “Definitely one to tell the grandkids, that’s for sure.”
Cooke puts on a baby voice, “Mummy, why do other people’s grandads read The Gruffalo to them, but I have to listen to Grandad Pete banging on about police misconduct?”
We’ve moved several levels of hell beyond mere “misconduct” in the past few hours, but it’s still a much-needed laugh to buoy up the glum troops.
I walk over to my desk; Steele doesn’t budge. “Is Fellows’ brief here?” I ask.
“Where’d you disappear to?” It’s not a question, more a gripe, and she doesn’t wait for the answer. “Yes, Ms. Bickford-Jones is in the building. Fresh off the Paris catwalk, by the looks of her.”
“Oh yes?” Seth doesn’t even try to play it cool. “Does she want a coffee? A tour of the station?”
“She wants to find herself a new client.” Steele slopes back, not planning on vacating my chair any time soon. “Because we’ve already got decent circumstantial for conspiracy to murder Masters and Jacob Pope. Nicholas Balfour’s house is being pulled apart as we speak, and Fellows isn’t going to recognize that lovely Little Venice mews once the search teams have finished. Or his yard in Lewisham. Or basically anywhere he’s set foot in over the past six years. Blake’s really raided the piggy bank for this one.”
I grunt, dissatisfied. “And our case for Holly?”
“We’ve got Dyer’s and Fellows’ phones—sporadic calls going back months, probably years, although we’ll need Forensics to dig those out—but there was a flurry of calls between them last Tuesday, the same day Dyer turned up at Serena’s school and then here. And they’ve been communicating every day since, including this morning—there’s a call from Dyer to Fellows made immediately after I told her we were about to arrest Serena.”
“So decent circumstantial again.” I’m not exactly punching the air. “I doubt Ms. Bickford-Jones’ blood pressure will be spiking over that, though.”
“Hey, boss . . .” Swaines calls from behind his stockade of screens.
“Hold on a minute, Benny-boy.” Steele keeps her focus on me. “Maybe, maybe not, but Emily’s heading over to Spencer Shaw’s now. Hopefully, with all this, he might be persuaded to actually name Fellows as Holly’s ‘big fish.’”
I grin. “So you’re hoping Emily’s big-eyed, ‘help a girl out’ thing will crack him?”
“Hey, needs must as the devil drives.”
“God, not you as well with the bloody quotes—you’re as bad as him.”
Him—Parnell—slams his phone down, practically salivating. “That was Forensics. They’re sending over all the deleted stuff shortly, but get a load of this, for a start—a text from Dyer to Fellows, last Tuesday, seven fifteen a.m. Not official yet but HK remains found. Answer your fucking phone.”
Steele’s look says, “Is that enough for you?”
Swaines shouts over again. “Boss, can you come here, I might have something.”
I wander over with Steele. There’s a map of Cambridgeshire on Swaines’ largest screen. It’s zoomed in on an area just west of Cambridge itself.
“It’s kind of tenuous,” he says, backpedaling already; Swaines always gets ants in his pants when Steele’s focus is on him. “It’s just that I’ve been digging around, and Erik Vestergaard’s son was at Cambridge University in 2012—Churchill College. It’s one of the only colleges based outside the main city center. Anyway, look . . .” We peer closer. A flash of something knocks the breath from me, but Swaines scrolls down before my mind can compute. “Churchill College is only around ten miles from where Holly was found. Ten miles—that’s not much, is it? And maybe if they were visiting Vestergaard’s son fairly regularly, then Fellows might know the area . . . and maybe if, um . . .” He sighs, losing his courage. “Ah look, I said it was tenuous . . .”
“Go back,” I say. Steele picks up on my urgency, casting me a worried look over the top of Swaines’ head. “Scroll up, I mean—the view we were looking at before.”
Swaines scrolls up.
And there it is. A name on a map. A bold red “H” in a circle.
The writing on the wall, perhaps?
&n
bsp; I swing around to Parnell. “Sarge, get that article about Dyer’s husband up on your phone again. The one about the defibrillator thing. What was the name of the hospital where he died?”
And no doubt spent a lot of time in over the years.
“The Royal Papworth Hospital,” he says, joining us at Swaines’ desk. I knew it. “It’s the UK’s leading heart hospital.”
And barely more than a mile north of Holly Kemp’s six-year resting place.
My eyes lock on Steele’s. “We know Dyer’s husband was seriously ill at the time. And what did Cairns say—she was always haring up and down the motorway, back and forth to the hospital.” I land a finger on the Caxton site. “She’d virtually drive past here on her way from London to Papworth. Can you zoom in again, Ben?” The small country lanes get bigger as our hearts sink further. “Look—if she turns off the A1198, she’s at that field within a minute. And don’t you think it’s weird she never mentioned knowing the area? Seriously, a supposed victim of one of the biggest cases of your career ends up dumped within a mile of where your husband died—that’d come up in conversation, right? That’d be something you’d mention. Unless you had good reason not to.”
“Dyer dumped Holly’s body?” Parnell voices what Steele and I can’t bring ourselves to say. “I mean, it’s circumstantial again, but it’s a pretty strong conclusion.”
“But why would she . . . ?” My brain fizzes, thoughts whiplashing in ten different directions. “It’s one thing cleaning up after Fellows in terms of derailing the investigation, but this . . . why?”
Steele’s fist is pressed to her chin. “Well, Dyer’s not going to be in a rush to tell us, so let’s see what Fellows has to say. We can use this as leverage: tell us the full extent of Dyer’s involvement and you might—might—just get out of prison in time to have a few years left on your free bus pass.” The thought’s a sickener, but if it works . . . “First though, get on the phone to Papworth. We need confirmation that Paul Dyer was in that hospital late February 2012. The exact range of dates, OK, because we don’t know exactly when Holly’s body was dumped, although within a day or two of her going missing is obviously a safe bet.”
I get on the phone to Papworth.
An hour later, they call back. It’s confirmed—the 7th of February 2012 until the 9th of March 2012.
Holly was never seen again after February 23rd.
Dyer’s husband was in that hospital.
31
I know before we walk in, we’re either going to get raw hostility or stage-managed charm. To be fair, they’re the two approaches we’ve been weighing up ourselves, eventually settling on a blend of both with one additional ingredient whisked in: belittlement. We need to make it clear to Simon Fellows that while he might be a “big fish” in his own swamp, here, in this interview room, with its sludge-green walls and cruel fluorescent lights that show up every blackhead, every blood vessel, he’s just a bottom-feeder like all the others. The dental work might be a cut above and his woodsy cologne, I’ll admit, is an improvement on the usual bouquet of cigarettes and BO that we often find ourselves inhaling, but where it counts, he’s no better. He’s just another longtime native of the sewer.
Parnell starts the recording. Fellows smiles the whole way through.
“For the tape, it is Tuesday 17th July, 2018, and the time is 20:02. Present are DS Luigi Parnell, DC Cat Kinsella, Simon Fellows, and Lorna Bickford-Jones, Mr. Fellows’ legal representative. In accordance with the Home Office Circular 50/1995, I am obliged to inform you that this interview is being remotely monitored and the custody record has been endorsed with the names of the officers monitoring. I also need to caution you that you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”
Fellows nudges his brief. “It’s just like on the TV, isn’t it?”
“Eight o’clock-long day, huh?” I say, as casual as a colleague at the end of a hard shift. “Are you feeling OK, Simon? Did you get something to eat?”
“I got something, yeah. Couldn’t tell you what it was though.”
“Not exactly La Trompette,” Parnell says with undisguised pleasure. “By the way, you didn’t mention you kept an office there. We’ve got a search team over there right now.”
“Have you?” He adjusts his cufflinks, eyes lowered. “Well, if they’re stopping for a late supper—’cos I’d say searching’s hungry work—I recommend the baked lobster tails and the tarte tatin for afters. Best in London.” He looks up. “Of course, what I’d really recommend is saving yourselves the overtime bill. You’ll find nothing.”
“Ah well, that’s our funeral,” I say, giving a light shrug. “And maybe we’ll find nothing at your house, your yard, at your mum’s place, at Erik’s son’s flat in Cambridge, at Erik’s daughter’s house—in Kelsey’s room . . .” I take no pleasure in the idea of a little girl’s bedroom being ransacked, but it rattles him, so job done. “We’ll have fun looking, though.”
“What exactly is it you’re looking for?” Fellows asks.
I laugh awkwardly. “God’s honest truth, Simon—I don’t really know. I’m pretty low on the payroll here, they don’t tell me that much. I suppose the gun you used to kill Holly Kemp would be nice, but I doubt we’re going to find that tucked away in a cupboard behind a load of board games and unwanted Christmas presents, are we? And anyway, without a bullet to match it to . . . you were careful, well done.”
“Anything that connects you to Holly Kemp,” Parnell takes over. “And Jacob Pope, of course, and Arlo Rollins—the men you ordered to clean up after you.”
“Er, can we stick to Holly Kemp, please. My client won’t be answering questions about any other charges at this time.”
Parnell levels one slow blink at Bickford-Jones then carries on. “Understand something though, Mr. Fellows—and I’m sure you do, because your type always knows the law inside out, even if you don’t respect it—we don’t need a smoking gun, pardon the pun. Sure, it’d be handy, very handy, but after this afternoon’s events, we’ve got more than enough circumstantial evidence to make a very strong case.”
“Basically, the cherry on the cake would be nice,” I add. “But our cake’s fine without it. Lovely and rich. Completely satisfying.”
Bickford-Jones gives me a blasé stare. “The ingredients of this cake, please?”
“Well, quite apart from the fact that your client categorically denied knowing Holly Kemp, despite one witness stating that she named him as a man she was scared of, and another witness implying that she was in some sort of business arrangement with him”—it’s a stretch but not a lie, and Parnell would be all over it if he thought I was pushing my luck—“we now have numerous calls and texts—previously deleted texts—between your client and Tessa Dyer, where they discuss Holly Kemp.”
“These texts,” says Bickford-Jones. “Does my client make any reference to being involved in Holly Kemp’s death?”
“Well, let’s see, shall we?” I pull the relevant page from the file. “Tuesday 10th July, 7:15 a.m. Tessa Dyer to your client: Not official yet but HK remains found. Answer your fucking phone. Then Friday 13th July, 9:59 a.m. Tessa Dyer to your client again, and this would have been moments after DCI Kate Steele, our SIO, made a call to Dyer to ask for her thoughts on your client’s name cropping up: Get out of house, police on way over. HK mentioned you to an old flame. You’ll have to be interviewed, can’t contain that. Need to brief you tho. CALL ME. And earlier today at 13:22—not long after DCI Steele indicated to Tessa Dyer that we’d be arresting Serena Bailey—this is your client to Tessa Dyer: Got ur msg. Meet u there. We need to sort this one, couldn’t give shit about ur conscience. Forensics are still working on the phones, but I have more if you want me to go on?”
“Tell me, how did you plan to ‘sort’ Serena Bailey?” asks Parnell, all feigned curiosity. Fellows smirks, shaking hi
s head. “For the tape, Mr. Fellows is smiling at the question.”
“I don’t hear any admission that my client murdered Holly Kemp,” states Bickford-Jones, completely emotionless: a beautifully decorated brick wall.
“Yet. Like I say, there’s more coming. But in any case, inference goes a very long way, as you well know.” I turn to Fellows. “You see, the problem with £1,000-an-hour briefs, Simon—although, fair play to you, Ms. Bickford-Jones, I wouldn’t turn it down—is that you’re paying for legal advice, sure, but you’re also paying for them to blow smoke up your arse. And that really doesn’t help you.”
“And helping me is your main concern, is it?” It might be wishful thinking, but I think I detect a shift in his tone, a tiny hairline fracture to that imposing self-confidence. “Look, if I’m so banged to rights, why haven’t you charged me yet?”
“Oh, we will be charging you, don’t you worry about that. We’re still gathering evidence, but all we’re doing is strengthening an already strong case.” I move in closer. “This is about giving you the opportunity to explain what happened. To make things slightly better for yourself.”
“You’re all heart, darling. And why would you do that?”
“Because we want everyone involved to be punished. And because right now, Tessa Dyer is down that corridor saying ‘no comment’ to every single question. Why is that? She knows better than anyone that there’s no route out of here, but she’s buying time, Simon. Trying to work out the best angle to take when she does decide to speak. Figuring out how to pin everything on you.”
“Fuck that.”
“Maybe we should take a break,” says Bickford-Jones. It falls on deaf ears.
Parnell cranks up the voltage. “Did Dyer dump Holly’s body? We strongly suspect she did, and it’d be far better for you to confirm that, rather than us having to find out for ourselves.” God only knows how we’d do that, but Fellows doesn’t know this. “Listen, I’m not going to blow smoke up your arse and claim there’s going to be a whole lot of leniency. We are going to put you away for the murder of Holly Kemp, and quite probably for conspiracy to murder Christopher Masters and Jacob Pope, but trust me when I tell you, cooperation at this stage is always a good thing. There are things we could request in exchange for your statement. A prison near to home maybe, so visits are easier for your family. Or a prison miles away from London, if you’re worried about safety. There are ways we can help, but you need to help yourself.”