by Tania Carver
Phil and Clayton walked into the yard. Men, barrelchested and shaven-headed for the most part, dressed in dirty work clothes, went about their business. Phil knew immediately that they had been clocked. He also guessed that most of the men who worked here had had run-ins with the police before so weren’t inclined to help them or ask what they were doing here. They would assume it was bad news and hope it didn’t concern them.
They found an office at the corner of the main building, the glass streaked with grease and dirt. They knocked on the door. It was answered by a woman; blonde and middle-aged, but fighting it hard. Petite but pneumatic, her breasts, lips and expressionless forehead screaming surgery, she was dressed like a secretary in an eighties porn film. As the smile she gave them faded once she worked out who they were, Phil reckoned she might have had a run-in with the law too. For something entirely different.
He held out his warrant card, Clayton doing likewise, and introduced themselves. ‘DI Brennan and DS Thompson. Could we come in?’
‘What’s this about?’ Her voice had a hardness that no amount of surgery could soften.
‘Better we talk inside, I think.’
Looking round warily, she reluctantly led them into the office. Inside was bare-walled and functional. Not a place for interior designers or feng shui consultants. Two desks, two computers, two phones. A charity calendar on the wall. Metal filing cabinets.
‘What’s this about?’ she said, not offering them a seat.
‘We’re looking for Ryan Brotherton,’ said Clayton, trying to move his eyeline away from her breasts and, Phil noticed, not entirely succeeding.
Knowing she had his DS, she turned to Phil, stuck them out further.
‘What’s it concerning?’
‘It’s a private matter.’
No one moved. The phone rang. She ignored it.
‘Shouldn’t you get that?’ Phil said. ‘Might be work.’
She still didn’t move.
‘Want me to?’ said Phil, moving towards the desk.
She beat him to it, grabbing the receiver and saying, ‘B and F Metals,’ then listening. ‘Right, Gary, can I call you back in a minute?’ She put the phone down, turned back to them.
‘Ryan Brotherton?’ said Phil, reminding her.
‘And I want to know why you need to see him.’
‘Look,’ said Phil, trying to keep a lid on his irritation, ‘he’s not in any trouble, he’s not done anything wrong. We just need to have a few words with him.’
He looked at her, didn’t break eye contact. She wavered, looked away. ‘I’ll go and get him.’
She left the office, walked across the yard. Clayton watched her go.
‘You okay?’ said Phil.
Clayton shook his head as if coming out of a trance. His face was unreadable. ‘Yeah, uh… not your average scrap-metal dealer,’ he said.
‘This is Essex, remember,’ said Phil, trying not to look, but unable to stop his eyes tracking her swinging hips like a spectator at Wimbledon. ‘Wonder why she wants to work here? Surrounded by all those men?’
‘Maybe that’s your answer,’ said Clayton, not bothering to disguise his leer. ‘Might consider a change of career…’
‘Focus, sonny. Think with your brain, remember. Look around. See anything that might help us?’
Clayton scanned the office, giving it close scrutiny. He shook his head.
‘Me neither.’ Phil returned his attention to outside the window.
As they watched, the pneumatic secretary walked to the bottom of the grabber and gestured to the man in the cockpit. He swung the arm over a bin and left it dangling there as he put the brakes on and opened the cab door, leaned out. Phil got a good look at him. He was big, and not unattractive, fine-featured. His hair was close-cropped, his upper torso very well muscled. He listened to what the woman said, his eyes going to the office, following her pointing arm. He didn’t look pleased.
‘Look at those guns,’ said Clayton. ‘Whoever he hit didn’t stand a chance.’
Ryan Brotherton got out of the cab and made his way across the yard to the office. Not in a good mood. He reached the cabin, opened the door, stepped inside. The space was small enough; with his large frame as well as the two of them, he seemed to suck all the air from the room.
‘Yeah?’ he said.
Phil held out his warrant card again. ‘DI Brennan and DS Thompson,’ he said.
‘So?’
‘Can we have a word, please?’
Brotherton shrugged.
Phil noticed the pneumatic secretary trying to enter the office. ‘In private.’
Brotherton noticed her entering too, didn’t try to stop her. ‘This is Sophie. Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of her.’ His face twisted into an expression that on someone else could have been a smile. ‘And I’ve found, Mr Brennan, that when your lot are around it’s better to have a witness.’
Phil weighed his options. Reassure Brotherton that he had done nothing wrong, insist on privacy. Or just say what he had to say to this unpleasant man, no matter how painful, and get out. He decided on the latter.
‘I’m afraid we’ve got some very bad news to tell you, Mr Brotherton.’
Brotherton said nothing, waited.
Phil and Clayton exchanged a glance. Phil continued. ‘It’s your girlfriend.’
Brotherton frowned. Sophie joined him. ‘Girlfriend?’
‘Claire Fielding.Your girlfriend.’
‘You mean ex-girlfriend,’ said Sophie quickly before Brotherton could speak.
Phil looked between the two of them. He knew what was happening. ‘Ex-girlfriend. I’m sorry.’
‘So? What about her? What’s she done now?’ He took a step forward, hands instinctively bunching into fists. ‘What’s she said about me now, eh? What lies has she come out with this time?’
Phil kept his face straight, his voice neutral. ‘What lies has she told before, Mr Brotherton?’
Brotherton gave a harsh bark. It could have been a laugh. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know.You wouldn’t be here otherwise. ’
‘Would this have something to do with your assault charges?’ said Clayton.
‘You know fuckin’ well it does. Just because I’ve done time for assault over five years ago you think you can keep dredgin’ it up all the damned time. Every time some bird makes some allegation you automatically come to me. Well I’m sick of it. Any more of this and I’ll get my solicitor on to you.’
‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Brotherton,’ said Phil. ‘There won’t be any more allegations against you. At least not from Claire Fielding.’
Another snort. ‘Why? She been given a restrainin’ order? Stop pesterin’ me?’
‘No, Mr Brotherton,’ said Phil, ‘she’s dead.’
He waited, scrutinising Brotherton and Sophie’s faces for the slightest out-of-place expression, to file away for a later date. The two of them exchanged glances. Sophie looked to be about to say something but Brotherton shushed her. ‘What happened?’ he said, voice flat.
‘She was murdered. In her flat, last night.’
His jaw sagged slightly open, his eyes went blank. Phil imagined that for him it was quite a display of emotion. Brotherton’s usual range probably went all the way from anger to anger.
‘What… what…’Then a thought struck him. ‘She was pregnant, wasn’t she?’
‘She was, Mr Brotherton. With your baby?’ said Clayton.
‘So she said,’ said Brotherton, the anger in his words indicating that whatever grieving process he had undergone for Claire Fielding was now officially over.
‘What d’you mean by that?’ said Phil.
‘What I said. Oldest trick in the book, innit? You wanna catch a man, you tell him you’re pregnant.’ He made an expansive arm gesture, looked round the office. ‘I mean, look at this place. I’m not bleedin’ Alan Sugar, but this is all mine. I own it.’
‘Your company?’ said Phil.
Brotherton
nodded. ‘I do all right out of it. And women, when they see that, they think, ooh, I’ll have a bit of that for myself. Better than workin’. So what’s the easiest way to do it?’ He shrugged, gave a self-satisfied smile as if he had just explained a particularly thorny issue to the Oxford University debating society. ‘Exactly.’
‘Well she’s dead now, Mr Brotherton, so your empire is safe.’
Brotherton nodded, failing to pick up the sarcasm in Phil’s tone.
‘So who’s the F?’ asked Clayton.
‘What?’ Brotherton was clearly irritated by the question.
‘The F. In the sign out there. B & F Metals.’
Brotherton shrugged. ‘Bought him out. Kept the name so people knew who they were dealing with.’
‘And that’s important, isn’t it?’ said Phil. ‘Knowing who you’re dealing with.’
Brotherton just stared at him.
‘Why were you out on the crane if you’re the boss of the company?’ asked Phil, frowning. ‘Don’t you pay someone to do that?’
Brotherton’s chest puffed out with pride. ‘Good to keep your hand in. Keeps you fit, strong.’
‘Never know when that’s going to come in handy, do you?’
Brotherton turned to Phil, his muscles flexing, hands balling into fists. Clayton looked between the two, spoke.
‘So you were no longer seeing her?’ he asked. ‘Claire Fielding?’
Another snort, attention diverted from Phil. ‘Why would I?’ He looked around, smiled triumphantly. ‘I’ve got Sophie now, ain’t I?’
Sophie returned the smile with all the warmth and animation her Botoxed features would allow.
‘So why would you still be described in her diary as her boyfriend?’ asked Phil.
‘Bollocks.’
‘It’s true, Mr Brotherton. Her address book still has your name in it too, and she carried a photo of you in her wallet.’
‘You know what birds are like,’ he said, trying to remain cocky. ‘Can’t let go, can they?’ But his features didn’t mirror his words. And something unfamiliar entered his eyes. Fear?
‘Mr Brotherton, where were you last night between the hours of ten p.m. and two a.m.?’
‘What?’ Brotherton looked between the two policemen.
‘You heard the question,’ said Clayton.
‘I was…’ He looked to Sophie for support.
‘He was with me,’ she said, picking up on his visual clue.
‘Where?’ said Phil.
‘At my place,’ she said quickly.
‘Doing what?’ said Clayton.
‘What business is that of yours?’ she said, her face finding animation at last.
‘This is a murder inquiry; answer the question, please.’
‘Watching a DVD. Bottle of wine, takeaway.’
‘What film?’
‘What?’ she said.
‘What film were you watching?’ Phil said again.
‘We… had a couple,’ Brotherton said.
‘What were they?’ Clayton’s voice was calm and emotionless.
‘Something… something Sophie wanted and… and something I wanted.’ Brotherton looked at her again, willing her to speak.
‘Which was?’ Phil’s voice was also flat and emotionless. A question machine.
‘Atonement,’ said Sophie.
‘No Country for Old Men,’ said Brotherton.
‘Is that out on DVD yet?’ said Clayton.
‘Got a pirate.’
Phil allowed himself a small smile. ‘Want us to do you for that as well?’
‘Look, just… fuck off. You’ve got what you wanted, we’ve told you what we were doin’. You’ve got your information, just… leave. Now. I’ve got a business to run.’ Brotherton was talking himself into confidence again. ‘And you’re bad for it.’
Phil and Clayton exchanged another look, the purpose of which was to rattle Brotherton and Sophie even more than their questioning had. Leaving them with that, they made their way to the door.
Phil stepped through first, Clayton following. As he came abreast of Brotherton, he turned.
‘What did you think of Romola Garai?’
‘What?’ he said, startled.
‘Briony,’ he said.
Brotherton’s face was blank. He looked to Sophie for help, but she was as lost as he was.
‘Romola Garai,’ Clayton continued. ‘She played the adult Briony. The lead character in Atonement.’ He smiled. ‘Thought you might have remembered that. I mean, you only saw it last night.’
He left, following Phil across the yard to the car.
‘That’s my boy,’ said Phil when Clayton caught up with him.
‘Thank you, boss. Everythin’ I learned, I learned from you.’
‘You like Atonement, did you?’
Clayton smiled. ‘Never seen it. Saw some pictures of that Romola Garai in Nuts. Thought she looked hot. Remembered what film she was in.’
Phil’s turn to smile. ‘So there is some value in those magazines after all.’
They reached the Audi, got back in.
‘So what d’you think, boss? Dirty?’
‘Hard to say. Something’s not right. He’s big enough to do it and he’s got previous. And from the way he responded, there seemed to be some unfinished business between him and Claire Fielding.’
‘He didn’t seemed too upset about her death,’ said Clayton.
‘He didn’t.’
‘And he was lyin’ about where he was last night.’
‘They all lie to us, Clayton. Haven’t you worked that out yet?’ He put the car into gear. ‘Back to Colchester.’ He thought of Marina. She would be at the station by now. He felt butterflies at the thought, tried to immediately tamp them down. He had work to do.
Clayton looked back at the office, then round again. He groaned. ‘Not Glasvegas again…’
‘No,’ said Phil, thinking. ‘About time you developed some taste, I think.’
Clayton’s eyes brightened. ‘Yeah?’
‘How about some Neil Young?’ Phil knew his DS would have never heard of him, but after the last admonishment he wouldn’t dare to argue. ‘A classic. Something to get the old brain cells working.’
Clayton shook his head. ‘Kill me now,’ he said under his breath.
Phil took a perverse and childish satisfaction in putting Clayton in his place.
They drove back to Colchester as fast as they could.
11
Marina bent over the washbasin and vomited again. One hand on the porcelain, one holding her hair away from her face.
‘Oh God…’ Her voice broken, riding out the waves of nausea, crying as she spoke. ‘I can’t… can’t do this…’
She gasped, breathed hard, waiting to see if there was to be any more. A deep breath in. Held and let go. And again. She sighed, eyes closed, listening to her body. That was it, she felt. No more. There was nothing left inside her to come out.
Opening her eyes, she ran the cold tap, splashed her face, the water disguising the tears, and straightened up, running her fingers through her hair, looking at herself in the mirror. Her eyes more haunted than ever. More fearful.
And with good reason, she thought.
Her hands went automatically to her stomach as she tried to control her breathing, will herself to calm down.
So, she thought. She was one of those women who were sick. And she knew the cause: the photos. She had been shown into reception at Colchester’s main police station on Southway. The duty sergeant had rung through; DCI Ben Fenwick had come down to greet her. He looked exactly the same. Smart suit, hair greying but neatly cut. His features were symmetrical and pleasing to look at, but somehow avoided being handsome. Marina assumed this was because he was too bland.
He came towards her, hand outstretched, smile in place, reminding her once again of the overeager head boy, welcoming newcomers to the sixth form. She felt sure he had done that.
‘Marina,’ he said, shaking her hand, m
oving her forward. ‘Welcome back. Come through. Let’s walk and talk.’
They went through the double doors, Fenwick striding urgently. ‘You know,’ he said without breaking stride, ‘we could never have reached a successful conclusion in the Gemma Hardy case without you.’
‘Thank you.’ And we know what happened with that, she thought, almost running along behind him.
Fenwick must have picked up her thought telepathically. ‘Of course, what happened afterwards, none of us could have predicted. And for that I am most deeply, deeply sorry. I am just so pleased that it was concluded successfully.’
And that I never sued the department, she mentally added.
‘I’m fine now.’ She was glad he wasn’t level with her, couldn’t see her eyes.
‘I’m delighted to hear it. Delighted.’ His voice changed, the pitch deepening. Through another set of double doors. ‘Of course, there will be nothing like that this time. Nothing. You have my personal word on that.’
King Cliché, she thought. Of course. How could she forget?
‘Thank you. Heard you on the radio on the way in, Ben,’ she said. ‘A double murder? Two women?’
Fenwick nodded, rounded a corner. ‘A flat in that new development. Parkside Quarter. Neither showed up for work today. Both stabbed to death. Nasty. Very nasty.’
Marina nodded, already processing the information, making quick assumptions. Women, stabbing. The blade a surrogate sexual organ. Since her specialisation was psychosexual deviancy, that was obviously why she had been called in. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘What else have you got?’
‘Well…’ Fenwick stopped walking, looked at her. She instinctively pulled her coat close around herself. A specially bought swing-cut coat to hide the baby bulge. And something told her she should disguise it. Despite numerous diversity training courses, she still believed that the police as an organisation remained not only institutionally racist but sexist too. And always would be: a brick house is always a brick house and no amount of beechwood cladding is ever going to change that, she thought. It was just something she had to accept if she wanted to work alongside the police. But she didn’t want any of her findings being dismissed as the misguided thinking of a hormonally overcharged woman.