Now You See Me

by Sharon Bolton

  Tulloch nodded at Anderson, who got up and found gloves from a drawer in a nearby desk. He put them on and then pulled the contents out of the envelope. The camera was too far away for us to see them clearly, but they appeared to be exactly what Groves had described. Almost. The press reports weren’t cuttings, they’d been lifted off the internet and printed out on standard office A4 paper.

  ‘Postmarked late Monday night,’ said Tulloch. ‘In central London. Do you have any idea why someone might want to send you this?’

  Groves shook her head.

  ‘She’s lying,’ muttered someone behind me.

  ‘Not sure,’ said Joesbury, who’d moved closer to my chair. ‘She looks scared to me.’

  Then the door of the interview room opened and someone we couldn’t see stuck their head inside. Tulloch suspended the interview and then she and Anderson left the room.

  We waited for Tulloch and Anderson to go back into the room, for something else to happen. Nothing did. People began to drift away from the TV screen. Someone offered to get coffee. No one seemed able to get on with any work. Just when we were ready to give up, the door opened.

  Tulloch had no need to call for silence. I could hear people around me breathing.

  ‘Jacqui Groves’s husband, Philip, is downstairs volunteering to make a statement,’ she said. ‘So are Geraldine Jones’s husband, David; Jonathan Briggs, Amanda Weston’s first husband; and Nick Benn, who found his wife’s body on Monday. And three heavy-duty solicitors.’

  Silence around the room. I wondered if anyone could hear my heart beating.

  ‘The detective superintendent wants to be present,’ Tulloch went on. ‘We’re starting in five minutes. I guess this is it, everyone.’

  ‘Talk to them individually,’ said Joesbury. ‘It’s too easy for them to stick to their story if they’re together.’

  Tulloch and he held eye contact for a second. ‘I know that,’ she said. ‘But they’re here voluntarily in the presence of some very aggressive legal help. For now, I think we just have to listen to what they’ve got to say.’

  As soon as she left, the rest of us turned back to the TV and flicked it to the main interview room on the top floor. As the screen flickered into life, we saw Anderson checking the recording equipment. Then the door opened and the room started to fill with tall men in expensive suits. I saw a resemblance to Felix Benn in one man. Another looked a little like Joshua Jones. The two lawyers were easy to spot. They didn’t look scared. The superintendent came in with the third lawyer and they all took seats around the large glass table. Through the windows behind them we could see the rooftops of Lewisham and a cloudless autumn sky.

  Anderson took a seat. They were all waiting for Tulloch. Minutes passed and still she didn’t appear.

  ‘She’s making them wait,’ muttered Mizon, who was just behind me. I wasn’t so sure. I rather thought she’d gone via the ladies’ room. At my side, Joesbury looked at his watch and his frown got more pronounced.

  Another minute and one of the solicitors turned round to look at the clock on the wall. The detective superintendent breathed out heavily just as the door opened.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Tulloch as she closed the door softly behind her. The men got to their feet, including, after a second or two, Anderson and the DS. All of them towered over Tulloch. She moved to the nearest vacant seat and pulled it away from the table.

  As the men sat, the youngest of the three solicitors started scribbling notes. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Joesbury biting his thumbnail. We all waited for Tulloch to begin. She was sitting with her back to the camera and we couldn’t see her face. We could see her hands though, on the table in front of her, pale and very still.

  ‘I understand you have a statement—’ she began.

  ‘One moment, please,’ interrupted one of the lawyers, a tall man with ginger hair. ‘Can we establish some ground rules, first of all?’

  Tulloch inclined her head.

  ‘These gentlemen are here voluntarily, in the spirit of being as helpful as possible. What they have to say is almost certainly not relevant to the investigation, but in the interests of full and frank disclosure. As such—’

  ‘I understand that perfectly,’ interrupted Tulloch. ‘But my team has a great deal to do today. Who’s going to start?’

  ‘Miss Tulloch,’ began the ginger-haired solicitor.

  ‘Detective Inspector Tulloch, and no disrespect, sir, but I think we’ve heard quite enough from you for the time being.’

  A short flurry of appreciative noises from people around me.

  Without giving the solicitor a chance to speak further, Tulloch turned to the husband of the latest victim. ‘Mr Benn, why don’t you begin?’

  Benn looked down at the glass table. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ he said. ‘It was a long time ago and no reason why—’ He stopped and ran a hand over his face. ‘Somebody else is going to have to do it,’ he said.

  Three husbands and one ex were exchanging glances around the table. The young solicitor was still scribbling away.

  ‘There was an incident,’ said David Jones, Geraldine’s husband, after a moment. ‘Years ago. We don’t see how it can be relevant, but—’

  ‘Whenever your people have talked to us, Miss Tulloch,’ said another man – ‘Jonathan Briggs,’ I heard someone mutter at my side, ‘Amanda Weston’s first husband’ – ‘they’ve been trying to establish a connection of some sort between the families. At first, with Geraldine and Amanda, we just thought it was the school. Then when Charlotte was killed too, I started thinking. I phoned Dave and then we got in touch with Nick. We agreed we should come and talk to you.’

  ‘With three lawyers,’ murmured Joesbury. ‘Sounds like more than a cosy chat to me.’

  ‘You mentioned an incident,’ said Tulloch. ‘Can you tell me what that was?’

  Silence again.

  ‘It was in Cardiff,’ said Jones after a moment. ‘Eleven years ago this summer just gone. It involved the boys.’

  ‘Your sons?’ asked Tulloch.

  Jones nodded. ‘They were in a rowing team – coxed fours. They’d gone to take part in a regatta in—’

  ‘I’m sorry, can you explain that term for me? Coxed fours?’

  ‘Four oarsmen in the boat, one oar each,’ said Jones. ‘When they have two oars it’s called sculling, not rowing. Our boys rowed. And there was a fifth team member, little lad, he was the cox.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Tulloch. ‘Please, carry on.’

  ‘The boys had gone to compete in the South Wales regatta. Starts up at Llandaff and finishes in Cardiff, in Bute Park. They did well, they won one of their races, were placed in another.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ someone near me muttered. Someone else shushed him.

  ‘They were allowed to go out on Saturday night,’ said Philip Groves. ‘Bloody stupid idea, if you ask me, kids that young, but they were allowed to go to the centre of Cardiff. I got a phone call at one a.m. to say they’d all five of them been arrested.’

  ‘We were phoned at home,’ said David Jones. ‘I drove up. Got to Cardiff about six. Nick was there already, then Jon arrived. And the other lad’s dad.’

  ‘Who was he?’ asked Tulloch.

  ‘Chap called Robert Curtis,’ said Groves. ‘Lives abroad now. We couldn’t get hold of him.’

  ‘What had they been arrested for?’ asked Tulloch.

  ‘There’d been an accusation,’ said Jones. ‘Completely fabricated, of course, but the police claimed they had no choice but to investigate.’

  ‘What sort of—’

  ‘They’d been drinking in one of the town-centre bars,’ said Benn. ‘Makes me bloody livid even now. None of them were older than fifteen. They should never have been served.’

  ‘They were big lads,’ said Groves. ‘Oarsmen have to be.’

  ‘They were arrested for underage drinking?’ asked Tulloch, as puzzled glances were being exchanged around me.

  ‘No,
’ said Jones. ‘If only. They met up with two girls, you see, local girls. Both well known to the police in Cardiff. The eldest in particular a known trouble-maker.’

  Over Tulloch’s shoulder I could see her fingertips were starting to tap gently on the glass table. ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘They left the bar shortly after eleven,’ said Jones. ‘The girls went with them. They went into the park. The big one in the middle of Cardiff.’

  ‘Bute Park,’ said Benn.

  ‘They were young, they’d been drinking, they had two pretty girls with them,’ said Briggs. ‘You can imagine the rest.’

  ‘Actually I can’t,’ said Tulloch, her voice like ice. ‘Please fill me in.’

  ‘They had a good time,’ said Jones. ‘They gave the girls some money to get a taxi home and they said goodnight. That should have been the end of it.’

  ‘And it wasn’t?’ Tulloch’s hands were so still now they could have been made of glass like the tabletop.

  ‘Next thing they know, the girls are at Cardiff Central police station, claiming they’ve been raped. The police have no choice but to go through the motions, get the girls examined, go down to the scene, bring the boys in. Because they were all underage, the parents were contacted.’

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ said Tulloch. ‘Your sons, and one other boy, were arrested and charged with the gang rape of two girls.’

  Jones slapped his hand down on the table. ‘No, Miss Tulloch. They were never charged.’

  Joesbury moved away from my side and walked to a desk at the far side of the room. He started moving the computer mouse around.

  ‘There was no evidence against them,’ Jones was saying. ‘Neither of the girls had a mark on them. There wasn’t even evidence that sex had taken place. All the boys used condoms, thank God. And the girls supplied them.’

  Joesbury had picked up the phone. He turned his back on the room.

  ‘None of the boys tried to deny that they’d had sex,’ said Benn. ‘But they were all very clear that it had been the girls’ idea, that they’d suggested going to the park in the first place. God knows we’re all vulnerable to hysterical females crying rape.’

  ‘How old were these girls?’ asked Tulloch.

  ‘The eldest was nearly seventeen,’ said Briggs. ‘Well known to the local force. She was in with a joy-riding gang. Used to steal cars and drive them around the docks and then torch them.’

  Joesbury was talking to someone. I forced myself to concentrate on the screen. At the other side of the room, another phone began ringing. Barrett picked it up.

  ‘And the youngest?’ asked Tulloch.

  No one answered her.

  ‘How old was the younger girl?’ repeated Tulloch.

  Still no response.

  ‘All the boys were under the legal age of consent,’ said the ginger-haired lawyer. ‘These were kids. A situation got out of hand. The police at the time did everything by the book, but no charges were brought.’

  Barrett finished talking, put the phone down and looked at me.

  ‘It came down to the word of two working-class girls with reputations against those of five public schoolboys with influential fathers,’ said Tulloch.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Ginger Hair. ‘The police found the condom packets. The girls’ fingerprints were on them. Why would they be if they hadn’t bought them in the first place? Those girls went into Bute Park expecting to have sex and then, possibly because the boys didn’t give them as much money as they were hoping for, they got nasty. Now, I think my clients have been as cooperative as you could expect, given the very considerable distress they’ve been subjected to and—’

  Tulloch was on her feet. ‘What were their names? The girls?’ she asked.

  Glances exchanged around the room. More than one man shrugged. Either the names of the victims hadn’t been important enough to be remembered, or they’d been as helpful as they were prepared to be.

  ‘Thank you for your time, gentlemen,’ said Tulloch. She left the room, followed by Anderson. The detective superintendent got up and switched off the recording equipment. In the incident room, someone reached up and turned off the screen.

  ‘Hey, Flint,’ called Barrett, from across the room. ‘Your mate Emma Boston’s turned up. Want to talk to her?’

  I did. Anything to get out of that room.

  60

  ‘WHAT’S GOING ON?’ EMMA DEMANDED AS I WALKED through the door. ‘I’ve got a bloody story to write, I can’t spend all day waiting for you lot to talk to me.’

  The call Tom Barrett had taken upstairs had been to inform us that Emma Boston had returned home to get the message that we needed to see her urgently. Not wanting to miss out on anything interesting, she’d come straight down to the station. Her sunglasses were on the table in front of her and I was struck again by how lovely her eyes were. And how I might never now have the chance to ask her why she kept such beautiful eyes covered up.

  ‘Tell me where you were between eight o’clock and twelve noon on Monday morning, Emma,’ I said. The light on the monitor wasn’t switched on. I didn’t think anyone was watching us but I still couldn’t afford to be chummy. Certainly not with Joesbury back on my case.

  She shrugged. ‘At home.’

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’

  ‘I might have popped out for a coffee. Why, what’s happened?’

  ‘Let’s take turns to ask questions, Emma,’ I said. ‘Me first. Now, where did you go for coffee, what time was it, who served you and who did you see in the coffee bar?’

  I made notes while she talked. Emma was a good journalist, she noticed things; she gave me plenty of detail of her morning and the trip to Nero’s. She shouldn’t have too much trouble proving she’d been nowhere near the Benn house when Charlotte was killed.

  ‘Why have you been trying to phone Charlotte Benn the last couple of days?’ I asked.

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘You mean the woman who was murdered? I haven’t.’

  ‘Her daughter told us,’ I said. ‘Her mother had several phone calls from you, asking to interview her about the Jones and Weston murders. Apparently, you were talking to several of the mothers from the school, trying to find out how they felt about the killings.’

  Emma’s creased face screwed up even further. ‘That’s bullshit,’ she said. ‘Someone was phoning Charlotte Benn? Pretending to be me?’

  I knew Emma was telling the truth. Still had to go through the motions, though.

  ‘Are you telling me you haven’t tried to speak to Charlotte Benn?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘No way. I might have done, if I’d thought of it, but I didn’t. Tell me what happened.’

  For a moment it was difficult to talk. ‘Still my turn,’ I said, when I’d pulled myself together. ‘I’m going to need your phone. And any you’ve got at home. I need to confirm they weren’t used to call the Benn house.’

  Emma sat back in her chair. ‘Oh, you are kidding me. Again? How am I supposed to get anything done?’

  ‘If I were you,’ I said, ‘I’d concentrate on staying out of harm’s way. Can I have the phone, please?’

  I put Emma’s phone into an evidence bag and got up. ‘Emma,’ I said, turning in the doorway. She looked up. ‘Please be careful,’ I added, as I left the room.

  61

  WHEN I GOT BACK UPSTAIRS, THE INCIDENT ROOM WAS quieter. Several people had left; there was no sign of Tulloch, Anderson or Stenning. Joesbury was still on the phone.

  ‘The boss has ordered the five boys to be brought in,’ Mizon told me. ‘They don’t all live in London, so it will take a while. And we’ve traced Karen Curtis, you know, mother of Thomas, the fifth member of the rowing team. She lives in Ealing. Stenning’s on his way over there with one of the new recruits.’

  ‘Where’s the boss?’ I asked.

  ‘She and the sarge are still with DS Weaver.’

  ‘Still can’t see it,’ said one of the older sergeants, whose voice was never pitched
low and who now seemed determined that the whole room hear him. ‘Two young Taffy girls get it a bit rougher than they bargained for and ten years later someone starts slicing up mothers? Gotta be coincidence.’

  No one answered him. Three dead women seemed to be stretching coincidence for most people. Joesbury was talking into the phone again, but he was too far away for me to hear what he was saying.

  ‘Those guys were ashamed of themselves,’ said Mizon to me. ‘None of them wanted to talk about it. They were defensive from the word go. I’ll bet they pulled some serious muscle with the Cardiff force.’

  We heard footsteps and saw Tulloch and Anderson making their way along the corridor. The door opened and they came in.

  ‘I need somebody to get on to Cardiff,’ Tulloch said. ‘Find out their version of events. We need to know who the girls were.’

  ‘Their name was Llewellyn,’ said Joesbury, as we all turned to the corner of the room. He’d put the phone down. ‘They were sisters,’ he went on. ‘The eldest had just turned sixteen, the younger one was fourteen. I spoke to the records clerk at Cardiff Central. She couldn’t give me much, just that an accusation had been made and investigated. Two days later the girls withdrew their complaint.’

  ‘Which you might expect them to do if the accusation was spurious in the first place,’ said Anderson.

  ‘Or if enough pressure was applied by people they were scared of,’ said Mizon.

  ‘Our killer can’t be a woman,’ insisted Anderson. ‘Women don’t rape and they don’t slice up other women. It’s men who get up close and personal with a knife in their hands.’

  Across the room, turquoise eyes fixed on me.

  ‘Couple of other things you should all know,’ said Joesbury, when he finally let himself blink. ‘The alleged rape we’ve just heard about took place on Saturday 31 August. The date of Jack the Ripper’s first murder. And the date someone got up close and personal with Geraldine Jones.’

  ‘What else?’ Tulloch asked.

  ‘The younger girl was called Cathy. The older one was Victoria.’

  He waited for us all to think about it.