“We’ll call her from the room,” Nick says. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry. It’ll be fine,” but he has paled. When the elevator doors open, Nick takes her by the hand and they jog down the corridor to their room. He fumbles with the key until she takes it from him and opens the door. Jess grabs the phone and is dialing when she hears him say, “What the fuck is this?” On a table in the corner is a huge basket of fruit. It’s a cornucopia. It wasn’t there earlier. Nick removes a small card from between a mango and a kiwi and tears it open and reads it aloud: “‘Have a great time. Compliments of Felix Abernathy.’” He looks at Jess. She puts the phone down.
“What the fuck is this, Jess?” Nick can get cranky and foul-mouthed when he’s had too much to drink.
“It’s okay,” she says. “Relax, darling, I’ll explain.”
“Fuck’s sake, fucking Felix Abernathy.”
He’s slurring his words. He doesn’t look like her dancing Romeo anymore. She needs to defuse this and she needs to call Olly’s mum immediately, but before she can do either of those things she also needs to quell the feeling of dread that feels as if it’s scraping out her insides.
“Felix fucking Abernathy! I thought we weren’t going to call him.” Nick’s not so drunk that he’s not getting close to putting two and two together.
“Shut up a minute, Nick, will you? Just shut up!”
His mouth drops open in surprise and he gets a look in his eyes that’s a little bit nasty, but Jess turns away. More than anything, she needs a few moments to think.
Chapter 20
Fletcher buys a disposable phone before he calls Cody Swift because he hasn’t lost his instincts for self-preservation, though part of him wonders why he’s bothering. Who would care, after all, if he lost his job now because of something like this? Would he? He’s not sure anybody apart from Danny would notice.
Swift answers with a robust “Hello?”
“This is Detective Inspector John Fletcher.”
“I’m sorry! Your number didn’t come up on my phone.” Fletcher doesn’t react to Cody’s comment about the phone number. Never explain. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
“This conversation is off the record, understood?”
“Understood.”
“You know the official investigation into the murders of your friends was closed when Sidney Noyce was convicted?”
“Yes.”
“I understand you have been looking into alternative theories as to who may have killed your friends?”
“I’m exploring some possibilities.”
Fletcher suppresses a snort. Who does Cody Swift think he is? “In the last episode of your podcast you mentioned you’re trying to discover more about the taxi that Jessy Paige traveled in on her way back to the Glenfrome Estate on the evening Scott and Charlie were murdered.”
“Uh-huh.”
“As you know, we were unable to trace the driver at the time of the investigation, but I have received some information identifying him. A man has come forward as a result of your podcast.”
“Oh, wow! That’s incredible! Can you share it with me?”
Fletcher shares the information Felix gave him and Swift laps it up.
“This is a big break for the podcast,” he says. “Can I record something with you? We could discuss what this means for the case.”
“That won’t be possible. I am speaking off the record here. I don’t think you need to specify where the information came from.”
“Will the police be investigating this?”
“As far as we’re concerned, the case was closed satisfactorily twenty years ago, and I don’t believe this will turn up any evidence to challenge the original outcome, but if you find out anything significant as a result of talking to this man, then the police would love to hear it.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I like you, Cody. I remember meeting you back then and I admire what you are doing now. Like you, I believe closure is important and I expect you need that as much as anybody else who was involved.”
An Oscar-winning performance? Fletcher wonders. A BAFTA at least.
“Thank you so much.”
“I look forward to hearing about it on the podcast.”
“And you will! Thanks again. It’s amazing to have your support.”
“You’re welcome,” Fletcher says. He marvels at Swift’s gullibility.
He takes the scenic route home via the Portway. The steep sides of the gorge tower on either side of him. A large boat takes advantage of the high tide to cruise into the center of the city. The suspension bridge is lit prettily above. Fletcher pulls into a lay-by and stops the car. He removes the SIM card from the disposable handset he used to call Swift and steps out of the car. He smashes both thoroughly underfoot and hurls the fragments into the river. He wonders how many others have used Bristol’s waterways to rid themselves of unwanted goods and unwanted people over the years. More than many of us would care to know, he thinks.
As he contemplates the water’s dark flow, he finds himself questioning Felix’s reason for wanting to share the information about the taxi driver. Why didn’t I ask? he thinks. Have I been as gullible as Swift? He feels confused and the irony is not lost on him, the way he raged at Danny when he thought he was being accused of being Tremain’s stooge but was willing to turn up and do Felix’s bidding without question. It’s because Felix and I have an understanding, he reassures himself. We do favors for each other. Quid pro quo.
Still, he muses on Felix’s motivations. Was it to take the heat off Jessica Paige? If so, why? Or could it have been to take the heat off Felix himself for some reason? Is Felix aware that Cody Swift has lucked out and is actually getting close to discovering something that could prove damaging to Felix? Something Fletcher’s not aware of? Perhaps Fletcher shouldn’t have been so dismissive when Swift said he was pursuing leads.
The breeze coming off the water is chilly and Fletcher shudders. These thoughts are uncomfortable. If any of them prove to be correct, then Fletcher himself could have been wrong about Noyce’s guilt, and that is a road he will never be ready to travel down.
Fletcher is buffeted by the slipstream from passing commuter traffic as he gets back into his car. His work mobile is ringing. He extracts the phone from his pocket with difficulty, and it takes him a few seconds to work out that the caller is Annabel Collins because she is speaking so fast.
“Can you repeat that for me, love?” Fletcher asks.
“My mother has given me something and it’s a bit shocking. I don’t want to say any more because, well, I want to give it to you in person.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at a concert. Our performance starts in twenty minutes. I had to rush here, but I’ve got it with me.”
“I’ll come.”
“I won’t be able to talk until it’s over.”
“Not a problem.”
“We’re at the Lord Mayor’s Chapel on College Green.”
Fletcher makes a quick call to Danny and leaves a message to explain what he’s doing. He knows he should be with another officer when he speaks to Annabel Collins, but it’s late and he doesn’t want to disturb Danny’s family evening or deal with putting things together after the row they had earlier. He could palm the job off onto another detective, but he feels it’s a good chance to build a rapport with Annabel and maybe an opportunity to ask about her paternity. Besides, a concert is better than going home. Fletcher pulls out into the traffic and makes a U-turn at the first opportunity. The call has got him fired up. Action always feels good. This is why I do it, he thinks, and then, Why am I continually reminding myself of that nowadays?
“I’m pushing my luck,” Danny says. His knee jigs up and down.
Fletcher stretches, then relaxes his fingers to combat his irritation with his partner and cracks a window open. There’s a fug in the car. “Nobody knows I’m here. Who knows?” he asks, but Danny doesn’t look reassured. Smail
has reiterated to him as well as Fletcher that they are forbidden from partnering on this case.
They stare at the tower block looming in front of them where the witness called Sonya Matthews lives. It’s half nine in the morning. Not many people are out and about, even though the weather’s fine. The murders have cast a pall of fear over the estate, and news of Noyce’s arrest hasn’t spread widely yet.
“We don’t need to do this,” Danny says. “If we wait for the blood results they’ll make the case against Noyce watertight.”
Fletcher runs his fingers over his freshly shaved chin and cheeks as they watch a pensioner pass, pulling a shopping trolley behind her. Only one wheel turns. The other scrapes along the tarmac path. A white cat dozes in sunlight on the bonnet of a car parked beside them. There are no kids about anywhere. The play area is empty.
“I don’t leave anything to chance,” Fletcher says. “You know my rules.”
“You should have told me before destroying the tapes.”
“The tapes were stolen from my car.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Do you think I’d lie to you?”
Danny shakes his head, but he looks confused. He’s always playing catch-up, Fletcher thinks. He’s never smart enough to get ahead of the game.
“But this is a risk. What if the witness doesn’t play ball?” Fletcher’s wound up so tight he thinks he might punch Danny if he doesn’t stop complaining and start to focus. He’s in danger of becoming a liability.
“She’ll cooperate if we do this right. Trust me! Have I ever let you down? Have I? What? Are you chicken now? You know what, as soon as this is done, I’ll leave you alone and you can go and suck up to Smail all you want. I can look after myself.”
Two red spots are burning on Danny’s cheeks. He raises his palms in submission. He sighs when they slap back down on his thighs, then checks his watch. “Where the fuck is she? Perhaps the information isn’t good.”
They are waiting for Sonya Matthews to return home after a night shift. According to a neighbor, this is the time she’s most likely to appear. Fletcher squints into the side mirror and sees a woman in jeans and a hooded sweat shirt approaching the building they’re parked in front of. “It’s her,” he says. Danny reaches for the door handle, but Fletcher puts a hand on his arm to stall him. “Are you on board?” he asks. Danny stares at him for a moment, then nods, and Fletcher nods back at him. “Let’s wait until she’s inside,” Fletcher says. He wants this conversation to be as private as possible.
They give Sonya Matthews a few minutes after she’s gone into the building—not too long, they don’t want her to have time to get to bed—before following her up to her flat. She answers the door promptly. She’s got the sallow skin and dark eye bags of the night-shift worker. She invites them in and puts the kettle on. The flat is similar to all the others they’ve visited, except it’s got a small private balcony on one side. The balcony isn’t big enough to put a table on, but a couple of foldout chairs are crammed into the space between the window and the balustrade, and there’s a limp washing line above them.
“Do you mind?” Fletcher asks, indicating the door that leads out.
Sonya Matthews shakes her head. “Be my guest.” She has a nasal voice that grates on Fletcher’s nerves further, but he doesn’t let it show. He opens the door and steps onto the balcony. “Where were you sitting on Sunday night?”
“That one.” She points to the chair farthest away.
“Was it in this position?”
She shrugs. “Think so. I haven’t moved it.” She withdraws inside to put the kettle on. Fletcher sits down in the chair she indicated. Danny watches from the doorway. Fletcher looks around. He can see a fair way down Primrose Lane. He estimates he’s about forty feet above it. There looks to be a reasonable amount of lighting at the entrance to the lane. If the lights were working, the witness would have had a decent view of the faces of passersby on Sunday night even if daylight was fading. He goes back inside. The door makes a suction noise as he shuts it. Sonya Matthews indicates with a wary gesture that they should sit.
“Can you remind me what you told the other officer you saw?” Fletcher asks.
“I saw the two lads who were murdered. I didn’t know their names, but I’d seen them around the estate a lot. Tearaways, the pair of them, so I kept my eye on them. I didn’t want a bloody egg chucked at me or something like that. They were walking close together, talking like they were plotting something. Thick as thieves.”
Fletcher experiences a jolt of sorrow at this. This could be a description of Danny and him when they were kids. Sorrow is followed by a rush of anger toward Noyce and Smail. Charlie Paige and Scott Ashby need justice, and Fletcher is determined to give it to them personally. He works hard to maintain his composure as he asks, “What did you see after that?”
“I already told the officer all this before.”
“We are just double-checking.”
“I saw that man they call Sid the Village. Big lad. He’s a few sticks short of a bundle.”
“What was he doing?”
“Walking along behind the boys.”
“How long after?”
She sighs. “Not long. Maybe five minutes at the most.”
“Which direction was Noyce going in?”
“Same as the boys. Toward Tesco. Like I said before. And then he went back again.”
“He doubled back? Are you sure?”
“’Course I’m sure! I know what I saw.”
Fletcher’s pager begins to buzz, but he ignores it. He takes a sip from the weak cup of tea she has put in front of him. She’s taken her shoes off and tucked her feet up under her on the sofa. She cradles her mug with both hands and blows gently across its surface. The steam scuds away and disappears.
Fletcher reaches into his pocket and takes out a sheet of paper. He unfolds it slowly and Sonya Matthews watches closely. He casts his eyes down it as if he’s reading it, even though he knows what’s on it already. It’s a short and simple document, detailing both the various government benefits Sonya Matthews and her partner have fraudulently claimed over the past decade and the likely prison sentence that could be attached to such a collection of misdemeanors.
“Here’s the thing,” he says. “Your testimony is very important to us, so important that we’ve come all the way over here today to double-check it. We have a strong suspect for the murders, but we need our evidence to be watertight to make sure he gets punished for what he’s done.”
“Right.” She sounds cautious. That’s good. Fletcher’s been trying to gauge how clever she is. This will be quicker and easier if she’s got a couple of brain cells to rub together. He puts the piece of paper faceup on the coffee table and pushes it toward her. She looks at it but doesn’t move. Fletcher nods, encouraging her to pick it up, and she reaches for it. When she’s read it, her eyes rove from Fletcher to Danny. She looks scared witless. “What do you want?” she says.
“It’s very important that you remember correctly which direction Sidney Noyce was walking on both occasions that you saw him.”
She swallows. “He was walking . . . behind the boys the first time?” she asks.
Fletcher nods. “And the second time?”
“He was going in the same direction?”
She’s smart enough. It’s a relief. “That’s interesting,” Fletcher says. “I expect Noyce must have walked around the block searching for the boys.”
“But, Detective,” she says.
Don’t fuck this up now, he thinks. I need this. “Noyce is guilty,” he says. “He’s guilty as sin. He’s a sick man. A pervert. You have done your community a big favor. When the other detectives return, I need you to tell them what you just told me. Tell them you were mistaken about the direction Noyce was going in when you gave your previous statement. They’ll understand that you might have been confused. Perhaps because you were trying so hard to help when you spoke to them before?”
Sh
e nods. She looks more uncertain than Fletcher would like, and he wonders if perhaps he hasn’t pushed the Good Samaritan angle hard enough. But then she says, “I think I might have heard Sid calling the boys. Calling after them.”
Fletcher licks his lips to suppress his instinct to smile. “That is very interesting. Getting Noyce off the streets will save the lives of other kids, and that will be because of you. You. Do you understand?” She nods. “And this”—he takes the paper out of his pocket and holds it up—“will disappear.” He crumples it up and she reaches for it, but he replaces it in his pocket. He extends a hand and she shakes it limply. He cups her sweaty fingers between both his hands.
“Thank you,” he says. “Now, get some sleep.”
Fletcher and Danny take the stairs down at a pace. The soles of their shoes slap and scrape on the concrete and the sounds echo. Outside, Danny says, “Are you sure she’s not going to get a guilty conscience?”
“I’m sure,” Fletcher says, but he isn’t, not completely. He knows he’s spinning more and more plates on this case, and he’s beginning to feel the toll it’s taking on him. He has a headache pinching at both temples and a loose feeling in his gut that tells him he’s about to hit his limit in terms of how long he can run on his nerves. He’s hopeful, though. Fletcher’s ambition is grand, and he’s spent his life reading and manipulating others. Rather an overdose of adrenaline and a chance at glory than three decades trudging through knee-high career shit.
As they drive away, the radio crackles with news for Danny. As Fletcher listens, he finally allows a smile to wrap itself around his face. It’s news that the blood on Sidney Noyce’s trouser leg matches Charlie Paige’s rare blood type. The pattern it has made on the trousers indicates that it probably resulted from a live injury. It was highly unlikely to have been transferred in that way if Noyce only visited the bodies after the assault. DNA results are still to come but the team is optimistic it’ll be a match to Charlie because of the rarity of the blood type. The news makes Danny smile, too.
It’s Time to Tell
I Know You Know Page 23