‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ Jade asked.
‘No.’
‘You watch a lot of porn, Dale?’
‘Some,’ he retaliated, turning to face her.
‘Give you ideas, does it? How to be with a woman? How to have a bit of fun?’
‘No,’ he said. He scratched the inside of his wrist.
‘Where’s that shirt?’ Jade said.
‘I burnt it,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘In the woods,’ Dale said.
‘You can show us where?’
‘I don’t remember where.’
‘Why did you burn it?’ Jade said.
‘He told us to.’
‘Your dad?’
‘The African.’ He spat the word. She was getting to him.
‘I think you burnt it because it was evidence. Because you’d committed a murder and you didn’t want to get caught,’ Jade said.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Did your dad talk about work at home?’
‘No.’
‘Never?’ Jade said.
‘No.’
‘You knew that he was investigating the murder?’
A pause. ‘Yes.’
‘But you didn’t tell him you’d been there?’ Jade said.
‘No.’
‘Then he found out?’
‘No. No, he didn’t.’ He sat still, frame rigid, but Jade saw twitches he couldn’t prevent flicker on his forearm, at the base of his throat, through his cheeks.
‘We have evidence that he did. Hard evidence that he was trying to conceal your part in the murder.’
‘He didn’t know anything about it!’
‘Your dad could use his role as a police officer to destroy evidence. Cover it up because he knew you were guilty.’
‘No, no, he didn’t,’ Dale said. ‘He didn’t even know we were there.’
‘He knew you were guilty, not Bishaar but you and Oliver.’
‘No, that’s not true. That’s a lie.’
‘Why else would he try to derail the same investigation that he’s working on? To stop us finding you. You and Oliver. The people who killed Allie Kennaway.’
‘That’s a fucking lie.’ His voice rose in agitation and he jabbed a finger at her, hatred vivid in his pinprick eyes.
Jade watched him, the nasty little scrote, for long enough, then said, ‘I know you’re not telling me the truth. We’re going to go over it again and again until you start making some sense. Same with Oliver. We’ll get there. We won’t have any trouble getting an extension to the time we’re allowed to hold you. Not for a case so serious. With such overwhelming evidence against you.’
She picked up the file. ‘Oh, yeah, and there’s something else you should know. We’ve a warrant out for your father’s arrest. It’s all gone to shit, Dale. He can’t help you any more. In fact, his interfering with the inquiry has only made it blindingly obvious to everyone that you’re guilty as sin, you and your mate Oliver. And you perjuring yourself is only making things worse. You killed that girl and we’re going to prove it.’
Martin
Martin saw the flicker of blue light coming from squad cars as soon as the taxi turned onto his crescent. Leaning forward, he said, ‘Can you take me to the cashpoint at Tesco’s on Chester Road. I forgot to get some earlier.’
A nod from the driver.
The taxi passed his house and Martin made out figures, shadowy, at the door. Only the hall light still on, so Fran must have left as instructed.
Someone had sent them after him. Had Oliver grassed him or Dale up? The thought made his bowels cramp. They couldn’t arrest him without having found something out. There was nothing in his notebook to incriminate him. He went over it again: the tape from Fredo’s he’d written up as a dead end; he’d also noted the time he had tasked DC Bradshaw with taking the video to the evidence store; his failure to retrieve CCTV from the Cavalier due to their power cut was cited in two sentences, nothing to send anyone sniffing round there; and no one would ever trace him to the anonymous tip-offs about Anthony Mayhew, he was pretty sure of that.
The visit from Sonia Poole? The failure to record that would be harder to explain. Had it come to light? Had the silly cow gone back to the station and had a second pop at fingering her son for murder? What sort of parent did that? What sort of loyalty, what honour, was there in sacrificing your child? Why ruin any more lives? Just for one mistake. She should be ashamed of herself.
His gullet was burning. A backwash of beer and whisky rose in his throat and he took a couple of swigs of the heartburn suspension to tamp it down.
He needed to know if Sonia Poole had done something stupid in spite of his advice. And if she hadn’t, he must persuade her it wouldn’t be in anyone’s interest now to reveal what she’d said to him at the station. Not hers or her son’s. But how could he account for the fact that her name was recorded in the log at Reception?
His mind gnawed away at the problem until, with a sense of release, he found the answer. She could say she had recognized Oliver in the photo-fit, was driven half mad thinking he was involved but when she reached the police station (and Martin smiled to himself at the simplicity of it) and was faced with the stone-cold reality of informing on him, of seeing Oliver’s life ruined, she had bottled it. So when Martin spoke to her she pretended to be a psychic talking bollocks about messages from the afterlife. That could work. Yes, that could work very nicely.
So if Dale and Oliver held their nerve, if Sonia Poole did what he told her, Plan B could still pan out. If, make that when, Martin got arrested he would keep quiet and ride it out. He was a decorated officer, for fuck’s sake, a distinguished career. But he needed to get Sonia Poole onside. Lay it out for her how Martin’s way was the only option, if she wanted her son to have a chance at acquittal. Make her believe Mahmoud Bishaar was the real evil bastard in all this and Oliver just a pawn. Wrong place, wrong time. Martin would have to come clean and tell her he was Dale’s father. That he knew how she must feel, that their lads had one chance at beating this, thanks to Martin. That Oliver needed her help, and she must do exactly what Martin said.
The cab pulled into the supermarket car park and drove up close to the cash machines. Martin withdrew two hundred. He checked the address for Sonia Poole on his phone. He’d made a note of it when the shit first hit the fan in case the lad had gone running home to Mummy with his tail between his legs.
Back in the cab he gave the Firswood address.
They were there in ten minutes. Martin paid the taxi and approached the Poole house. He swore when a cat ran between his legs almost sending him arse over tit. It waited by the door as Martin rang the bell and slid inside when the door was opened.
‘Mrs Poole?’
She looked like she’d been slapped and left for dead, red eyes and pasty skin, hair like straw. Smell of fags coming off her. ‘Can I have a word?’ He smiled, hoping to get her to relax.
‘They arrested him,’ she said.
‘I know. That’s why I’m here,’ Martin said.
‘Sonia?’
Shite. Someone else was there, another woman. Appearing in the hall. ‘You all right, Sonia?’
‘It’s the police,’ Sonia Poole said. She turned and walked back into the house, leaving Martin to follow her.
This was not a conversation he could have with a third party present.
The two women were in the kitchen. A bottle of vodka stood on the table with two glasses, each with a slice of lemon. Martin’s mouth watered and the reflux rose again, like water backing up a sewer. ‘I think we’d better talk in private,’ he said.
‘Rose knows everything,’ Sonia Poole said, her words slurred. ‘Anything you want to say to me you can say to her as well. She’s his godmother.’ Her voice was close to breaking.
Martin prayed she wouldn’t start wailing. He’d had enough of weeping women for one day.
Sonia Poole picked up her drink and paused, the glass halfway to her mo
uth, frowning. ‘They said you were ill.’
‘Who did? Did you go into the police station?’ She had sold him out. Sweet fucking Christ.
‘No. The one who came earlier. She said you were ill and she wanted me to go over it all again. Everything I told you. You haven’t even been looking for him, not properly, from what she said.’
Had Donna been here?
‘We were doing everything we could,’ Martin said. ‘That is the truth. Was it DI Bell you spoke to?’
‘No. Bradshaw. DC Bradshaw.’
Fuck. Martin’s heart thumped hard and his bowels twisted. It was Jade who’d fucked everything up. Jade, with some vendetta to sink him, to destroy him and his family. Skanky Paki bitch. It was like he was running from an earthquake, crevasses snaking over the ground, opening all around him. ‘Glad she’s seen you,’ he managed. ‘Bit of crossed wires there obviously.’ Shite! There was no way he could enlist Sonia Poole to cover for him now. ‘We’ll keep you informed of any developments,’ he said, retreating into the jargon. ‘I’ll see myself out.’ His head was going to explode. His guts were roiling.
Jade Bradshaw. Who the fuck did she think she was? Did she imagine she could mess about with someone like Martin Harris and get away with it? Fuck that. She needed sorting out. And Martin was just the man to do it. Once and for all.
Donna
‘Take a seat.’ The chief constable gave a nod towards a spare chair. Donna had been summoned. She had never been in his office before. This wouldn’t just be a bollocking then, it would be a disembowelling.
The room occupied the corner of the building with a view out over St Peter’s Square to the library and the town hall. The chief con had a standing desk and remained upright, to one side of it, putting Donna in mind of a preacher. And herself a penitent. She heard the clock-tower bell chime a quarter past six.
‘Harris has been apprehended?’ he said.
‘Not yet, sir. He wasn’t at his home address.’
‘Flight risk?’
Was he? Wouldn’t he carry on with his bid to protect Dale? Or now, with his complicity unmasked, would he save his own skin? ‘I’m not sure, sir. But I’d advise alerting the Border Force to be on the safe side.’
‘What are the charges?’
‘Conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, assisting an offender, tampering with evidence,’ Donna said.
‘And you had no idea?’ he said coldly.
Donna’s cheeks grew hot. Her instincts had failed her. She remembered the flickers of doubt when Martin had put in his complaint about Jade. She’d been negligent about it, trusting Martin because of their familiar working relations. The undeniable issue of the medication had coloured her reaction. It’d been a clever stroke, she realized. The medication was hard fact, and with that in the mix, Martin had invented the rest: lost evidence, negative, abusive comments. Jade’s lack of control, her going into meltdown, when Donna had raised the concerns with her, had been grist to the mill.
‘No idea, sir, no,’ she said.
‘A cock-up of this magnitude doesn’t go away,’ he said. ‘Especially not when it relates to one of the most sensitive cases we’ve dealt with in years. The eyes of the public are on us twenty-four seven. You know that as well as anyone. Not only that but our performance, our behaviour, is being monitored and measured by an extremely vociferous LGBT community. We have a high-profile hate crime and a corrupt detective. It’s a disaster of nuclear proportions.’ He slapped his palm onto his desk.
‘Sir, I’m sorry if—’
‘Sorry doesn’t cut it, Donna. It happened on your watch and you need to make it right, salvage this inquiry, and quick, or I’ll find someone else who will.’
‘We’ve made good progress and I—’
He raised a hand to silence her. ‘My overriding concern is that this leaves any prosecution open to accusations of procedural failings. A botched investigation means the case is thrown out of court. Those two thugs walk away. And the good reputation of this police service is immeasurably damaged.’
The thought of that was haunting her but she fought to appear confident. ‘It won’t happen, sir,’ she said. ‘I’m going over everything now. Any exhibits or evidence handled by Martin Harris will be omitted from our case file but we will gather new supporting evidence to strengthen our position against Oliver Poole and Dale Harris but also against Martin Harris. We can prove there was conspiracy, sir. I’m sure we can. We can win this.’
‘Donna, I’m not in the mood for platitudes or slogans. This is a spectacular fuck-up so don’t spin it any other way. Not to me.’ He spoke with such loathing that humiliation burnt through her.
‘No, sir.’
‘Talk me though the narrative so far.’
Donna did so while he stood listening, side on and arms folded, his profile outlined against the cityscape beyond.
Every so often he asked for clarification. When she’d finished, he exhaled loudly. ‘You’ll perhaps understand why I don’t share your faith in a positive outcome. Any confidence in your work as SIO has been seriously undermined. You carry the can for this. It may be your family circumstances mean you’ve taken your eye off the ball.’
Had she? Was that why she’d made the mistakes she had? And would you dare say that if I were a male officer and it was my wife who’d been in an accident?
‘Sir.’ She spoke before he could say any more about replacing her, or rub her nose in the mess any longer. ‘Let me get on with it. Now.’ She stood up. ‘I’m conscious of the time, and the sooner I get back to it, the more I can get done.’
He gave a nod of dismissal. Then a parting shot: ‘Pray to God the media don’t get a whiff of it until we have it all locked down, or there’ll be a perfect shit storm and any chance of a fair trial will be out of the window.’
In the lift, Donna rang Bryony.
‘Mum, where are you? It’s a quarter past seven.’
‘I’m stuck at work. I can’t get back. I don’t know when I’ll be home.’
‘Oh, great.’
‘I’m sorry. You could still go to the hospital. Take a taxi,’ Donna said.
‘What with? I spent what you gave me.’
I don’t fucking know. Get a bus. Walk. Donna couldn’t come up with any practical solution. There had been a time when there was an emergency cache of money under the bowl in the hall where the spare keys lived. But the system had collapsed: too often one of them would use it and forget to replace it.
‘I’ll ring the hospital and get them to tell Dad you’ll visit tomorrow,’ Donna said.
In the background she could hear Kirsten: ‘Is she coming?’
Then Matt: ‘When are we going?’
And Bryony, shushing them: ‘I can’t hear.’ Then, ‘Mum’s at work so we can’t go.’ Kirsten crying.
Donna’s insides corkscrewed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Tell them all I’m sorry.’
‘She’s sorry,’ Bryony announced loudly, her voice thick with resentment. Then hung up. Not even a goodbye. Donna wanted to scream.
At her desk she sat with her head in her hands for a few moments. Then she stretched, feeling the muscles stiff in her back, frozen across her shoulders. She opened the investigation log.
It was going to be a long night.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Steve
Steve walked into the living room and found Bets and Helena on the sofa either side of Teagan. A tablet was hooked up to the TV, Allie filling the screen. One of the videos they’d made: Allie pretending to be a newsreader, a strange continental accent and lots of eyebrow action. Giggles turning into cackles.
Steve swayed. Moved to a chair.
‘I invited them,’ Teagan said, pausing the film, head raised, as if she expected him to object. ‘Nanny’s just gone.’
‘Steve . . .’ Bets looked petrified. And he could see Helena had been crying, tissues balled on the table next to her.
‘It’s fine,’ Steve said. ‘I’m glad you came. I’m n
ot sure I’m ready for—’ He waved a hand at the screen.
‘We can turn it off,’ Teagan said.
‘No, no. You carry on. I want to make a couple of calls.’ At the doorway, he turned back. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘No,’ Teagan said.
‘D’you want to order some Chinese? All of you?’
‘OK,’ Teagan said. Nods from Bets and Helena.
‘What do you want?’ Teagan asked him.
‘Beef fried rice,’ he said, the first dish that came into his head.
He put the milk, beer and pineapple juice he’d bought into the fridge. The very act of shopping had felt alien. He felt alien. Exposed and out of place, expecting at any moment to be recognized as Allie’s father . . . the father of the dead girl.
He rang his mother and told her briefly what the situation was with Emma.
‘Oh, Steve.’ She sighed. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. Perhaps if you—’
‘I don’t want to talk about it, Mum. Tell Dad, will you?’
‘Of course. I’ll pick Teagan up at ten thirty tomorrow night, unless you need me in the day.’
‘No. That’s great. Thanks.’
Steve got a bunch of forks ready, glasses and drinks. He was so tired. He promised himself an early night but sleep was erratic, evasive still.
He rang Yun Li next, apologizing if it was late. ‘I want to look into giving an interview,’ he said. ‘Something to counteract Emma’s piece. You said there was a press office. Could they arrange something?’
‘Yes, I’m sure. They’d probably want to have some input,’ Yun said.
‘No,’ Steve said. They wanted to manage him, orchestrate what was said and done, and he wasn’t having that. ‘No.’
‘The concern is that comments may be made that undermine the inquiry and—’
‘I won’t be talking about that,’ Steve said. ‘I’ll be talking about Allie, what she was like. Yes, of course, about the shock of all this, the . . .’ He sucked in a breath. ‘But nothing about the police, nothing that could mess up your PR.’
Yun didn’t respond immediately, so Steve went on. ‘I could do it myself. Contact the Indy or the Guardian.’
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