I Know You (DI Emma Locke)

by Louise Mullins

  ‘That was fast.’ His eyes go north, and I look up to see what he does.

  Airplanes. About forty of them. Dangling off string, taped to the ceiling.

  He notices. ‘They’re mine.’ He looks proud. ‘I made them.’ He reaches high and tugs one down for me to inspect. The design is astonishingly complex. The details intricate.

  ‘You have talent.’

  ‘I’ve never been on one. Don’t like heights.’ He points to the guitars. ‘I play music too. Do you want to hear the song I wrote last night?’

  ‘I don’t have time, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I slip the new standard issue, smash-proof, water-resistant, touchscreen phone from my trouser pocket to take his statement. ‘Tulip, I’d like you to tell me what happened today.’

  His eyes narrow. ‘That’s not my name.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s what they call me round here. They think I’m weird because I watch planes fly over the houses and live with my mum. She’s a hippy. She talks to the flowers.’

  I remember what Sinead said about his fascination with UFOs and realise it’s not only his name that’s been misinterpreted. He must spend a lot of time looking at the sky in search of the airplanes that take flight over Ringland from Cardiff airport.

  ‘I apologise if I’ve offended you. I should have asked.’

  ‘It’s Logan.’

  ‘Logan, can we start again?’

  ‘Yes. But quick. I don’t have all day.’

  Jaxon is the same. Blunt and honest. His filter is broken.

  ‘The man. He didn’t break in. She left the door open. He was stood on the doorstep for ages. That’s why I went upstairs and got my video recorder. I keep everything in the loft.’

  ‘Your equipment?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What kind of equipment do you have?’

  ‘A telescope aimed out of the Velux window, binoculars… It’s just a hobby.’

  ‘Would you mind if DS Jones took a quick look at what you’ve got up there?’

  ‘If he puts everything back where he finds it,’ he says, shooting Jones a daring glance. ‘The ladder’s a pull-down one,’ he calls after Jones’ retreating form.

  I turn my attention back to Logan. ‘Do you work?’

  ‘No.’

  So why is he in such a rush to leave the house?

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell me about the man that you saw?’

  ‘I have not seen him around here before?’

  I note he leaves a question mark at the end of his sentences. Jaxon does that too. And as I sit and listen and take notes, I make an educated guess at Logan’s condition: Asperger’s.

  I maintain an impassive demeanour towards the twenty-eight-year-old – according to the electoral register – oddly dressed man. He will remain a suspect until I can prove he had nothing to do with Sinead’s vehicle collision. Didn’t deposit dog faeces through the letterbox. Didn’t pour petrol onto the mat via the front door from one of the canisters I saw inside the boot of his car. Didn’t photograph Terry vacating the driveway of Sinead’s property to frame him after bashing her over the head himself, leaving her unconscious on her bedroom floor for someone else to find. Because if Terry decides to start talking and admits to confronting Sinead, or argues she invited him into her home, we have got to prove circumstantially that he had the motivation and opportunity to unlawfully enter the Griffith’s property to physically assault Sinead – intentionally or impulsively. Then it’s Logan’s word against Terry’s.

  ‘Where were you between eight and nine o’clock on the 6th of October?’

  ‘You mean 8 and 9 p.m.?’

  ‘Uh, yes?’

  ‘Visiting my dad.’

  ‘He can confirm that?’

  ‘Not unless you’re a medium like my mum.’ I wait for him to explain.

  ‘I spent the day at the cemetery.’

  *

  We leave the close around 7.45 p.m. and I call Evans to fill him in on the evening’s events before hitting the traffic. ‘You’re focusing too heavily on an Aspie man simply because he had an ongoing feud with Sinead over her invisible dog’s barking.’

  ‘I’m certain sufferers don’t like to use that language concerning their condition, sir. Also, he admittedly got the wrong house. He apologised to the Griffiths for banging on their door and complaining. He gets anxious and because of the way his brain works he says what he thinks. And you knew we were questioning him as a witness to Sinead’s attack because I told you on the phone that I was going to call you after we’d spoken to him.’

  ‘Yes, well. Good news is we have a complete “no comment” interview from Terry. No admittance. No denial. We have pictorial evidence to support he was at the scene at the time that the crime took place, and he hasn’t argued a non-existent alibi.’

  ‘And the bad?’

  ‘The CPS won’t agree to an ABH charge because they want medical proof Sinead’s injuries didn’t stem from the car accident that we know was intentional but can’t prove until we have a suspect responsible for causing the crash in custody.’

  Assault occasioning ABH carries a maximum penalty of five years in prison.

  ‘Shit. That means we’ll have to let him go.’

  ‘Unless he’s broken his release conditions not to forcefully enter someone’s home.’

  ‘Which he has. Thank god he’s on bail.’

  ‘Did Tulip—’

  ‘Logan.’

  ‘Did Logan,’ he corrects himself, ‘tell you why he was taking photographs of Sinead’s house?’

  ‘He’s into planes. He was watching the sky. He snaps pictures of them when they fly over the cul-de-sac. He’s got a drone too. Takes videos of them sometimes.’

  ‘Interesting. I wonder if he’s caught anything on those. Someone staking out the Griffith’s property, for instance.’

  ‘Jones has already looked through Logan’s latest footage, all previous was recorded over. We didn’t see anything untoward.’

  ‘How far have you got on the husband?’

  I fill him in on Aeron’s confession and give him the opportunity to feed back his opinion on the situation. ‘Aeron’s in financial trouble and Sinead had an affair.’

  Sex and money are two of the main factors involved in violent crime.

  I hear him take a swig of water, the plastic bottle popping down the line. ‘What did he say about the disagreement between the firm and the property developer regarding the architectural regulations for one of his building projects that was recently reported on?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘It was in the local newspaper three months ago. I’d assumed you’d run a background check on both husband and wife. At least that’s where you should have started your inquiries,’ he says.

  I recall Aeron’s earlier words regarding the dog shit getting shoved through the letterbox when asked when it had first occurred: ‘Weeks. Eight. Ten. Twelve. I don’t know. I just assumed it was Terry. That’s why I didn’t tell anyone.’ But after Sinead’s attack we’d both theorised the involvement of someone else.

  ‘I didn’t know about Aeron’s debt with Terry the Loan Shark until he told me after he’d arrived home from work to discover the man had beaten up his wife.’

  ‘It looks like Aeron’s building firm was already in crisis before Sinead’s vehicle got hit.’ I register the fact he’s already omitted the ‘deliberately’ now the CPS are being awkward.

  ‘You’re saying he could have taken out multiple loans from any number of individuals before he approached Terry?’

  I hear keyboard buttons being tapped through the line. ‘Take a gander at the email I’ve sent over to you and tell me what you think.’ The line goes dead.

  My mobile phone bleeps with a notification. I upload the JPEG scan of the article and scroll down the screen to read it.

  PLANNING PROPOSAL FOR NEW CITY REFURBISHMENT OBJ
ECTED AGAIN

  Delaney Construction of Newport’s £12M investment in a major property redevelopment deal has fallen flat now that plans to revamp the grade II listed market hall building are being reconsidered for the third time in three years due to a technical dispute.

  The building firm contracted to convert the site, due for completion in September, has ground to a halt, sparking a disagreement between the neighbouring workers.

  The land opposite the bus station, previously owned by the local authority and sold to a private investor in 2015, was delayed due to a dispute regarding scheduled works. Delaney’s architectural engineers refuse to accommodate the private planning conditions of Whitechapel Properties’ recent build, now open to the public for viewing and purchasing, due to a clerical error on a permission slip signed by the vendor before the sale of the acre of land.

  It all sounds like gobbledygook to me. Policies and procedures controlled by Newport City Council. But what catches my eye is the fact Gareth Delaney, the man Sinead had an affair with, was forced to reapply for planning permission to redesign the architecture of the building for the revamp to the market hall, increasing the timeframe of the overhaul and preventing Aeron’s employees from commencing their work next door on the various apartments facing the infamous bridge. Where the derelict remains of Newport Castle have been fenced off from the mudbanks and salt air of the river it stands sentry over.

  How far would Gareth go to ensure his deal worth twelve million pounds remained secure, having been forced to await authorisation to recommission the work he was due to begin in just a few months?

  I think I should speak with the man responsible for seducing the adulterous woman who risked losing her family over him. I want to know what Gareth has to say about Sinead. Because if I’ve learned anything during my time in the force it’s that those closest to us are often the ones with the darkest secrets.

  They may no longer be in contact with one another but that doesn’t mean what Gareth and Sinead had between them wasn’t strong enough to cause resentment, anger, or even regret in the man by the time they decided to go their separate ways.

  Had his passion gone awry?

  Is Gareth capable of something as heinous as murder?

  Would he have gained complete control over the project if Aeron was too distraught to continue working after his wife had died in a tragic vehicle collision?

  And is he pissed off that she survived it?

  HONOUR

  Croydon, London

  I’m soaking in the bath, the hot tub of water filled almost to the brim with bubbles when I hear a commotion at the front of the house. Directly below my half-open bathroom window someone catcalls, another someone shouts, a car door slams and I’m instantly up, towel wrapped around my skin, dripping water all over the linoleum, to push it further wide to investigate. A swarm of journalists stand around the gate to my home. I slam the window shut before anyone can snap a photograph of me.

  The last time they were here was a few days after the story broke about Steven’s death, when the news reached them that the individual suspected of witnessing his murder hadn’t come forward. Someone, I’m unsure who, released my address and they appeared suddenly and unexpectedly outside my house, asking questions about my tragic loss, attempting to garner information as to why the police were being vague in their answers and cagey concerning the lack of leads. A woman caught me as I hugged Faith goodbye at the door, offering her condolences and trying to extract knowledge she said would give my case publicity. I couldn’t talk. Didn’t want to offload my fears on her nor admit the lack of traction in the case was the reason I was being plagued with insomnia.

  I dress hurriedly and race downstairs, fling open the front door, and am startled by DS Maguire and DC Pierce. I don’t like the look on DS Maguire’s face today. Her features serious, poised stoically. She side-steps me and enters the house without asking if she can. DC Pierce waits for me to enter before closing the door behind us and holding back as I follow DS Maguire into the living room.

  I collect a hand towel off the radiator and rub my hair dry, attempting to prolong the moment before she tells me they’ve found him, the man who killed Steven. For DC Pierce to say he’s been arrested and charged. I turn to find that DS Maguire is stood in the doorway, her colleague behind her.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for what feels like forever for today, only now the time has arrived I’m not sure I can bear to know.’

  She waits for me to sit before she speaks. ‘Natalie Campbell was shot dead yesterday afternoon around four in the afternoon.’

  ‘What?’ I open my hand and drop the towel. ‘N… Natalie’s the girl they were discussing on the radio this morning?’ I heard it while I internally seethed and raged in the salon over Carmen’s final words to me last night. To learn that I approached her ranting and raving just a couple of hours after her daughter had been killed, while she was unaware, causes me to stumble backwards into the coffee table where I fall into a sitting position, the backs of my legs jarred by the sudden impact of wood against my soleus muscles. ‘Do you think… could the person… is it the same man who attacked my son?’

  ‘We have no evidence to suggest the two deaths are related.’

  Had Natalie come forward when she did because her guilty conscience conflicted with her allegiance to the gang or had she sensed she was living on borrowed time?

  ‘Steven…’ It still hurts to say his name aloud. ‘He was in a gang. The five of them, though I don’t know how many of them there were in total. Steven, Jerome, Natalie, Leighton, and Marcus.’

  ‘When did you learn this, Miss Bennet?’

  ‘A couple of days ago. Jerome told me. He came here upset. He said word on the street was that Steven wasn’t the target. When I asked how he knew that he said a rival gang spread the information to theirs.’

  ‘Is that why you confronted Carmen yesterday evening, at approximately six-thirty?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘She’s made a complaint to the police. She claims that you’ve been harassing her. Turning up at her workplace. Following her.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘That you confronted her at her home address just minutes before I attended her property to inform her that her daughter, like your son, had been fatally wounded.’

  ‘I didn’t know… I wouldn’t have…’ I can’t finish my sentence because the tears erupt, and my entire body begins to shake violently in an uncontrollable sobbing fit. ‘I can’t… believe… who would do this?’

  ‘That’s something we, as much as you, want to learn as quickly as possible in case anyone else gets hurt,’ says DC Pierce, moving towards me to place his solid, warm hand on my now ice-cold shoulder.

  ‘If what you claim Jerome told you is true then we need to speak to him to confirm the conversation took place before we take this matter any further,’ says DS Maguire.

  ‘You’re insinuating I’m lying!’ I shrug DC Pierce off me.

  ‘Not at all. But we can’t accuse people of affiliating with a criminal organisation without the minimum of circumstantial proof and a strong suspicion of criminal involvement,’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I snivel.

  ‘What my colleague is trying to say,’ says DS Maguire, ‘is that being a member of a gang is not a criminal offense unless you are partaking in illegal activities.’

  ‘I don’t think they are. I can’t imagine that Jerome or Natalie for that matter would be involved in something like that. And I know for certain my son wasn’t.’

  ‘With respect, Miss Bennet, I don’t think any of us take enjoyment in seeking the negatives in people. But we’re all liable to being misled.’ She stares at me, waiting for a response. When I don’t reply she says, ‘We came here to inform you about the murder of Miss Campbell, but we also want to speak to you concerning something else that has been brought to our attention regarding your ex-boyfriend, Steven’s father.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Were you aware
that Dejuan had any prior criminal convictions?’

  ‘Before he was sentenced for the armed robbery, you mean?’

  She raises her eyebrows and looks to DC Pierce. ‘The offence was perpetrated and executed in Jamaica. We lost contact shortly afterwards. It was five years ago.’

  ‘Then yes, before that.’

  ‘Then no, I wasn’t aware he had a criminal record here, in the United Kingdom.’

  She leans forward slightly, rests her elbows on her thighs and says, ‘He’s spent a total of nine years within the British prison system from the age of eighteen.’

  ‘What? Why? What’s he done?’

  ‘The possession and trafficking of class A substances.’

  ‘Drugs? Are you sure?’

  ‘It wasn’t part of our earlier investigation, so we didn’t think it necessary to disclose the information to you at that stage. But we have reason to believe that Dejuan has remained in contact with a friend of his who’s recently been reported missing, and whom we suspect may be involved in the sale and supply of hard drugs here in Croydon.’

  ‘Are you saying this man could be connected to Steven’s death because his father had a history which I knew nothing about that involved dealing?’

  The shaking that had begun to recede starts up again. First in my head so that I look like a nodding dog. Then the trembling travels down my neck, the length of my torso, and floods into my limbs. I grip the edge of the wood for support, feeling my heart beating wildly in my chest.

  ‘Miss Bennet?’

  ‘I’m just shocked, that’s all.’

  She gives me a tight smile and I see DC Pierce give her a knowing look she doesn’t respond to and all at once I’m catapulted back in time to the day that I collected Steven from school to find Dejuan on the doorstep waiting for us with a carrier bag of sweets at his feet. He was holding out a hanger with a Spiderman outfit that he wasn’t supposed to give to our son until his eighth birthday.

  ‘Mi boy.’ He knelt at his side and gave Steven the bag. ‘Am goin’ ta da island. A wanna see you before a go.’

  Steven looked directly at his father and his smile dropped. ‘How long for?’