Cynthia mumbles something inaudible.
‘What?’
Cynthia’s shrill voice pierces through the wooden door. ‘I said do you want—’
I hold the phone away from my face and put my hand over the receiver. ‘Cynthia, could you please give me a minute?’
‘I’ll boil the kettle. Don’t you worry.’ Her mumbling continues as she creeps back down the stairs.
I press the phone back against my ear. ‘… released from prison three weeks ago and paroled to an address in Swindon.’
‘Who was?’
‘Alex Peters,’ he huffs.
The floor beneath my feet looks as though it’s titling. My knees drop as if someone’s slammed a baseball bat across the backs of them. I grip the side of the shower curtain to stop myself from falling into the bath and potentially hitting my head again and rip the curtain rail off the wall instead. It swings down and lands inside the tub with a loud smack.
‘My goodness, Sinead. What are you doing up there?’ Cynthia shrieks from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Are you okay?’ she adds as an afterthought.
I swallow the bile that sits in the back of my throat and clench my stomach muscles to stop myself from vomiting as fear grips my insides like a devil’s claw.
DI LOCKE
Newport, Wales
While I’m on my way to meet the custody sergeant, Jones calls to tell me that Ashleigh has been booked in, searched, fingerprinted, acquiesced to having a DNA swab taken, was given a drink, and her solicitor has arrived. ‘I grabbed her laptop and mobile phone from the house she shares with her mother. Ashleigh doesn’t have a driving licence, passport, or citizen card. But once I managed to wake her mum up, she let me photograph Ashleigh’s birth certificate which I’ve texted you to quicken up the preliminary checks.’
Inside the interview room, Ashleigh looks dumbstruck, as though she can’t quite believe what she’s done. But with a witness, CCTV footage, and her own admission while detained within a police vehicle on the way to the custody suite, she’s what I like to term fucked.
‘Today’s date is Wednesday 17th October 2018. The time is 7.43 p.m. I’m Detective Inspector Emma Locke. With me is Detective Sergeant Dylan Jones, duty solicitor Katerina Powell, and suspect Ashleigh Owen.
‘Ashleigh is a white female, age nineteen. Her current address is The Ashes on Sycamore Avenue, in Maindee, a township of Newport, Gwent.
‘Ashleigh, you were arrested today at 5.51 p.m. for the murder of Joshua Owen, or Josh as he preferred to be called, your twenty-one-year-old brother. Having questioned two individuals present at the scene, their version of the event has been corroborated by two further witnesses, who describe seeing you “shove him into the road” where Josh was “hit by an oncoming white van” after what appeared to be a “short argument.” Josh was fatally injured by the impact and was pronounced dead by paramedics who arrived at the scene shortly after the incident. While in transit to the custody suite you confessed to having been responsible for pushing Josh into the road during a confrontation concerning an ounce of cocaine which one of the PC’s in attendance discovered in the pocket of his jeans while searching his person for ID. The bag I showed you before your arrest. Have I missed anything so far?’
She glances up at me and hiccups, tears streaming down her face, her shoulders shuddering.
She can’t deny her brother is dead or argue she had the opportunity to commit the crime. The PCs in attendance wore vest cams. They switched them on the moment they exited their vehicles and began to scope the area in search of Josh. Ashleigh verbally claiming responsibility for the offence was therefore recorded after she was read her rights and is thus permissible to be used as evidence in court.
‘It’s your prerogative whether you talk or not, Ashleigh, but this is your only chance to explain your actions today. Once I charge you with your brother’s murder you will be detained until trialled. Although due to the seriousness of the offence we have evidence to support you committed, it’s highly unlikely you’ll get bail. Which means you could be held in custody on remand for months before you appear in court. And if you plead guilty, you still won’t get to have your say, to voice your motivation for shoving your brother into an oncoming van, knowing there was little chance he’d survive the impact.’
Her eyes flit from me to her solicitor and back again. ‘I didn’t want to hurt him,’ she stutters.
‘We can prove that what you did was intentional.’
‘I didn’t want him to die.’
‘What did you think would happen?’
‘It wasn’t on purpose.’
‘You admitted it.’
‘I was trying to get him off me.’
‘You’re saying it was an accident.’
‘Why would I deliberately kill him?’
‘We’re here, Ashleigh, because I’d like to find out exactly what led you to take Josh’s life, whatever the cause. What you did or didn’t “mean” to do is irrelevant to me. You’ll be judged by a jury.’
‘He ran from the house because he was scared.’
‘Because he didn’t want us to arrest him.’
‘To hide the drugs that he was addicted to.’
‘That he was selling.’
‘To avoid a false allegation of possession to supply.’
‘You’re satisfied that’s the version you wish your solicitor to defend a cross-examination with?’
‘You were chasing him when he got hit by that van.’
I stand. ‘Interview terminated at 8.09 p.m.’
I find Jones in the incident room supporting one of the DCs while they sift through CCTV footage. He glances up from the monitor and eyeballs me.
‘She’s accusing me of causing Josh’s death so I’m going to inform Evans before he cancels the entire interview and sends her home on pre-charge bail pending an enquiry by the IOPC regarding my actions. I don’t want a repeat performance of whatever the hell happened with Sinead back in Croydon three years ago. I want this done by the book, so Ashleigh doesn’t get away with killing her brother on a procedural technicality.’
He points to the still shot on the screen. ‘She snatched something from the pocket of his jeans. He grabbed her by the hood of her sweater and dragged her backwards. They scuffled for a bit then he retrieved the bag of white powder that the lab preliminarily report is cocaine. She shoves him, he loses his balance, slips off the pavement and a speeding car drives round him. He drops the bag, retrieves it from the ground, stuffs it back into his pocket, and turns to run across the road.’
‘That’s when he got hit by the van?’
He nods. ‘Ashleigh was reaching out to haul him out of harm’s way when the van hit him. It would have looked to the driver as though she’d just pushed Josh into the road.’
‘So it was an accident?’
‘That’s what it looks like to me.’
‘We still need to know what they were arguing about.’
‘You want me to finish interviewing Ashleigh to find out while you speak to the chief?’
‘Please.’
The death of an offender during an attempted arrest is as examinable as the death of an individual being held in a cell on police custody. Whatever the potential ramifications to me and Jones – temporary suspension a likely probability – the incident must be officially reported, and an enquiry opened by a representative of the IOPC.
I hasten down the corridor, past Evans’ office, towards the exit, ignoring the desk clerk, and lighting up a cigarette I pulled from my locker and slipped down my bra along with a lighter I’m not allowed to keep in my pocket while on shift. I spark it up, pulling on it until my lungs hurt, and release the smoke into the dark, dreary, night-time sky.
I close my eyes, feel the wind against my face and wonder if Sinead felt as helpless as I do, thinking her career was on the line, knowing her every move would be inquired upon because of someone else’s actions.
I stamp on the cigarette butt and turn towards the door at the sou
nd of it opening. Jones pokes his head through the gap. ‘Filling your lungs with tar,’ he tuts.
‘What’s Ashleigh saying?’
‘She was “begging him to get rid of the powder.” Toxicology will confirm if Josh was a regular cocaine user which is what she’s adamant kicked it all off.’
The roadside footage corroborates her story. ‘Does Josh have an alibi?’
‘Ashleigh’s claiming that Josh was at home with her at the time of Sinead’s vehicle collision.’
‘Right. I’ll determine which CCTV cameras to focus on and designate two DCs on IDing him from inside the car.’ ANPR cameras footage proving the vehicle was being driven from Chepstow Road up Christchurch hill isn’t going to be enough to prove Josh was behind the steering wheel.
Jones follows me back inside the station, where I’m hoping to grab a coffee from the vending machine to drink at my desk while the incident room is relatively quiet but one of the DSs in charge of visiting Alex Peters calls out for my attention before taking long strides across the room towards me. ‘Alex’s parole officer showed me the risk assessment undertaken by a forensic psychologist before his release and the parole board confirm he received the appropriate safeguarding and rehabilitative support before being signed out of prison.’
‘What are the terms of his discharge?’
‘Keep away from the law.’ She shrugs. ‘Both those he worked with and those still in the force.’
‘That’s it? The Met aren’t concerned he might still be involved with the individuals he was working to keep out of their line of sight? You know, drug dealers and the like.’
‘If they are, they’re waiting for him to screw up before their interest in his new “crime-free” existence is reignited.’
‘I’ll send someone over to Swindon to pay Alex a visit tomorrow.’ Regardless of whether we can close the case against Josh by then or not, I’d like to hear what Alex has to say about his part in the investigation of Dejuan’s criminal activities, Keenan’s brother’s lucrative drug business, as well as Tyrell’s and DCI Evesham’s murders.
*
When I open the front door of home, Johnno greets me in the doorway with Jaxon on his hip.
I watch Jaxon, tongue out in concentration, fascinated with his fingers, which he touches tip to tip in a pattern only he can understand the reason for.
I kneel so he can meet my line of sight with a flick of his eyes. He prefers to focus on the ground or the sky or anywhere but me, his stepmother. Oh, how I hate that label. ‘Hey buddy.’
‘That’s not my name.’
I smile though it hurts. I sometimes wish Jaxon wasn’t so blunt. I roll my eyes and Johnno places a hand on my arm and smiles in understanding.
‘Sorry I’m late.’ I raise my chin and plant a firm kiss on Johnno’s lips.
‘You smogging Mummy?’ says Jaxon, staring over my shoulder at a cat in a garden across the road. Its eyes glowing in the dark.
‘Kissing, Jaxon. Not snogging.’
‘No, Mummy smogging Daddy. Not Jaxon.’
Johnno laughs.
I catch the shock of grey that’s begun to climb the stubble on Johnno’s unfortunate paternal genetic predisposition to early aging as I follow him through the hallway and into the living room. Home. Warm and dry.
The second I slip off my shoes and glide on my fluffy slippers my mobile phone chimes from inside the pocket of my bootleg black trousers and I growl.
I catch Johnno’s eye roll as I hit accept call. But he grins so I know his disapproval is fake. ‘Are you home yet?’
‘Yes, Jones.’
‘The lab analysed the fingerprints and skin cells garnered via interior swabs from the BMW registered to Ashleigh, owned by Josh. DNA indexing confirms the only profile belonging to a recent driver of the vehicle is one ex-Detective Constable Alex Peters.’
I scan my memory bank for his photograph among the thirty or so officers and civilians who were or are involved in either of the previous or current murder investigations (Tyrell Campbell, DCI Evesham, DC Collins, Steven Bennet, Natalie Campbell, and Josh Owen). ‘Shit.’ He matches Sinead’s description of the blond hit and run driver perfectly.
‘What do you want me to do, Emma?’
‘I’ll organise an arrest warrant and delegate another DS to attend Alex’s address with you. Meet me at HQ in an hour for a briefing with a Tesco meal deal. The warrant should be signed off by then.’
‘Do you ever think of anything but your stomach?’
Johnno hears Jones and says, ‘No. And she’ll still eat what I cooked earlier and left in the microwave for her when she gets home.’
I end the call with them both sniggering.
‘Arseholes. The pair of you.’
HONOUR
Croydon, London
The flat smells musty. There’s a fine coating of vegetable oil on the surfaces inside the kitchen. And the hallway carpet is barely visible beneath the layers of hair and crumbs. I feel the brush of fur against my calf, and look down to find a cuddly toy on the floor. A straggly looking ginger cat jumps off the fridge where there is a bottle marked ‘Methadone’, visible from the doorway. The cat steps on my shoe and stares at me as it saunters away like it owns the place.
I’m surprised Kim can afford to feed a pet, let alone function well enough to care for one, but despite her medically supported addiction she manages, in her drug-addled state, to step over crushed beer cans and empty kebab boxes and get up in my face, demanding ‘who the fuck’ I am.
Before I can think of a reply, Carmen has lunged for the closed living room door where we find her son perched on the end of a grimy looking sofa, oblivious to our entrance due to the earphones plugged into the control pad of a PlayStation he’s facing that looks like it was discovered in a skip.
‘Jerome,’ she says, reaching out to unplug him. He jolts back in surprise.
‘Why?’ she says, not waiting for a reply, then embracing him. The rest of her unsaid question sounding less accusatory, more despairing. ‘Why did you run away? Why didn’t you call to let me know you were okay?’
‘He’s eaten me out of house and home, that kid. You should feed him more often,’ says Kim, her voice distinctly nasal.
Carmen narrows her eyes and glares at her mum then moves away, snatching the sleeve of Jerome’s sweater, her grip tightening, face hardening. ‘Where’s your uncle?’
‘I was never meeting Keenan. I was texting Nan.’
‘You haven’t heard from nor seen him?’
He shakes his head. ‘Not since… Natalie.’
‘And Marcus?’
He shakes his head again.
‘He’s missing too.’ She tuts and steers him towards the door. ‘I expect his mum’s going out of her mind. We’re going home, Jerome, so you can explain why you pulled this stunt.’
Wearing a mixture of remorse and relief, he reluctantly stands and follows her out of the door.
‘Hey, wait, he’s forgotten his rucksack,’ says Kim, stumbling across the room, holding the doorframe for support as she begins to sway, pupils pinned from the effect of opioid assisted analgesia.
Outside, I walk a few paces behind them, allowing Carmen the time to berate her son, while drawing him close and breathing in the scent of his hair. In the car I detect an element of appreciation sweep across his eyes and catch his smile in the rear-view mirror from where he sits in the back of the cabin. I drop them home, Carmen thanks me, and tells me to call her sometime for a drink.
‘There’s this nice place I go sometimes during work breaks, close to the job centre. They sell hot chocolate for £2.’
‘Yes, sure. That sounds… good. I’ll speak to you soon.’
I detect the denial creeping in. The grief of losing her only daughter will hit her in a few days. Just as it did with me, after Steven.
As I pull away, blinking back tears, I glance into my wing mirror and think I see something protruding from the pocket of Jerome’s jeans, though it’s too dark to
see what it is. When he passes the tree where Natalie was shot, nearing the entrance, I drive off. I don’t want to give the images in my head any further attention.
DC Pierce is waiting to greet me when I arrive home. He exits his car the second I step through the front door, snaps the key out of the lock, and hands it to me in haste. ‘What were you ladies discussing during your trip around town this evening?’
‘Not much,’ I say, bending forward to tug my shoes off my feet.
‘Care to tell me what you were doing wandering around the kids’ playground for over an hour? Returning to the scene of the crime, your eldest son’s death? A known drug-dealing hotspot?’
I place the shoes beside each other facing the wall and straighten my posture. ‘Not that it’s a legal requirement that I reply considering I’m not under caution, but we were doing the work you should have been.’
His nose twitches and just as I’d wondered the first time we met, could the momentary flash of anger that burns through his eyes one day spill out?
‘We were looking for Jerome. And thanks to his mum’s tenacity we found him at his grandmother’s. I expect you’ll be hearing from Carmen to call off the search party shortly.’
‘No sign of Keenan?’
‘Jerome’s uncle wasn’t at Kim’s.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen Marcus on your travels either?’
‘No.’
‘Well, good catch. But next time leave the fish to us.’
‘Not getting your Christmas bonus this year then?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Fuck your arrest quota up, did I?’
‘I’m sorry?’ His face has changed. He looks almost enraged.
‘How far have you got into discovering who took my son from me, who stole Natalie’s life, who ripped Tyrell’s future away from him, huh?’
His expression reverts to impassivity. And after a delay he says, almost as though retreating from a mind blank, ‘Like father, like son.’
He turns back to his car parked on a single yellow line in front of a pavement sign declaring: RESIDENTS ONLY. Ignoring it as usual because he thinks he’s above the law as they pay his wages, he opens the door to the unmarked car that gives him an immediate superiority complex. I feel my blood pressure rise. I daren’t admit he has a point.
I Know You (DI Emma Locke) Page 19