DEAD GUILTY
Michelle Davies
Contents
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Acknowledgements
For Lyndsey and Ruth
1
Tuesday
Philip Pope stood at the end of the bed and surveyed the chaos. A week’s worth of his wife’s knickers lay strewn across a mound of T-shirts that had slipped from their folds on the journey from drawer to bed, and on top of them was a flip-flop that had lost its mate. Then, jumbled alongside, he counted three dresses in prints his wife loved but were too lurid for his taste, a pair of shorts similarly bright and two pairs of sunglasses minus their cases.
Laid neatly upon his pillow was his own packing: two pairs of cream shorts, both knee-length, two pairs of lightweight stone-coloured trousers, five polo shirts for the daytime, all white, three short-sleeved shirts for evenings, striped, and enough underpants to last the trip.
Missing from both piles were his trunks and his wife’s swimsuit. Patricia was insisting there should be no swimming or sunbathing; it would be improper, she argued, no matter how inviting the pool was, or how much they longed to warm themselves beneath the sun’s glorious rays. They had an image to project in the coming week and ‘carefree tourist’ was not it. Philip gazed down at the bed and wondered how the brightly coloured dresses and shorts fitted in with her vision.
The bedroom door swung open and Patricia entered carrying two folded beach towels. He winced as his wife threw them down on the bed with the rest of her stuff. For someone who had spent her entire professional life being orderly and demanding the highest of standards from those she managed, she had all too willingly embraced chaos in retirement. It drove him mad.
‘Why haven’t you got the suitcases out of the loft yet?’ Patricia queried. ‘I asked you ages ago.’
Impatience nipped at her words, making them sound brittle and unfriendly. Philip mentally counted to ten as his counsellor had taught him, and his irritation at being nagged had ebbed by the time he reached the end. It’s the stress of the occasion making her like this, he told himself. Don’t rise to it.
‘I’ll get them now,’ he said. ‘I was sorting my clothes out.’
Patricia eyed the neat stack on his pillow.
‘Is that all you’re taking?’
‘What else do I need?’
‘You don’t want to be photographed wearing the same thing every day.’
‘I don’t want to be photographed at all, I told you.’
‘Oh please, don’t start that again,’ said Patricia, sweeping across the bedroom to her glass-topped dressing table and picking through the bottles of scents and creams lining the top. Philip resumed his counting as she lobbed her selection onto the bed.
‘You know how important it is that we make ourselves as accessible as possible to the media throughout the holiday.’
‘I thought this wasn’t a holiday,’ said Philip. ‘What was it you said? “A holiday implies relaxation and fun and time to gather one’s thoughts away from the demands of daily life. This trip will provide none of those things.”’ He quoted her primly, like the art curator he had once been.
She turned on him, her blue eyes flashing with anger. Forty-five years ago those eyes had stopped Philip’s seventeen-year-old self in his tracks outside a Soho coffee bar: Patricia was sitting with her friends, had looked up as he’d passed and had smiled at him – and that was it, he was smitten. Age might’ve dulled their colour, but his wife’s eyes could still pin him to the spot all these years later.
Their daughter’s had been the exact same shade.
‘You’re twisting my words. I know we’re not off on our jollies, but you could at least act as though what we’re doing out there isn’t the worst thing imaginable.’
But in his mind it was.
On the back of the bedroom door, snuggled together on the same hanger for convenience, was a knee-length black dress Patricia had purchased especially for the trip and Philip’s most formal suit, dusted free of mothballs. Binding them together at the neck was a loosely knotted black tie. These clothes would go in last, carefully laid out over the shorts and the flip-flops and the bottles of suncream Patricia had bought in bulk from Boots. They were to be worn only once, as they honoured their daughter’s memory at the place where her remains were recovered.
‘This week is about reminding people that Katy’s killer is still at large,’ said Patricia.
Philip was suddenly assailed by a memory of the four of them sitting at a table at that lovely Italian restaurant on the sea-front, faces tinged pink from too much sun. It was their first evening in Saros and Katy’s boyfriend, Declan, had treated them to champagne and they’d laughed and chatted and marvelled at the view across the bay as the sun languidly melted below the horizon and stars that shimmered like diamonds filled the sky.
It had been the most idyllic holiday destination, until it wasn’t.
‘I don’t think I can go,’ he stuttered.
Patricia looked across at him and for a fleeting moment he saw in her expression the sorrow she’d held at bay for the past ten years by focusing every ounce of her energy on finding whoever had murdered their daughter. The campaign had distracted her from her grief and gave her purpose, but privately Philip wished she would, just occasionally, give in to tears and in doing so let him comfort her. Perhaps then she might do the same to him.
His wife gathered herself, pushing her desolation back down from wherever it had sprung.
‘Don’t be silly, it’s all arranged,’ she said briskly. ‘We can’t cancel now. What would the police think after all the fuss we made?’
She had a point. Once they – well, Patricia – had decided to go ahead with the trip and memorial service, she’d begun pressuring the Met to send officers to join them. Katy’s case was still open, under the name Operation Pivot, and Patricia had argued that a British police presence was needed on the island for the anniversary to remind everyone, particularly the Majorcan police, that the search for the murderer was still ongoing. The Met had eventually conceded – possibly, Philip suspected, to shut Patricia up and avoid any more negative press.
Indeed, Philip was quite certain Operation Pivot only continued because of Patricia and her
previous standing as one of the highest-ranking female officers in the Met. She had been a chief superintendent in line to be made a borough commander when Katy was murdered on their family holiday in June 2009. Returning after an extended period of compassionate leave, she found she couldn’t pretend to care about solving other crimes while their daughter’s death remained a mystery, and had accepted early retirement.
Since then she’d devoted all her time to keeping Katy in the public consciousness with endless appeals, headline-grabbing speculative claims about who might be responsible and fierce, relentless criticism of the joint investigation by British and Majorcan police for failing to meet her exacting investigative standards.
However, in spite of her exhaustive efforts, the ranks of Operation Pivot had dwindled from the dozens of officers deployed at the start. Now the team was down to a detective chief inspector, two lower-ranking detectives and a family liaison officer, the most recent of whom had been redeployed elsewhere two weeks ago because Patricia had objected to how overfamiliar she’d become. A new one had yet to be appointed and it was looking unlikely that would happen before the trip, much to her annoyance.
‘Have you dug your passport out?’ she asked, the change in subject signalling that, for her, the matter of Philip not going to Majorca was now resolved. ‘Put it on the bed with mine.’
With a resigned sigh, he began rooting around in his bedside table for it. The landline phone on Patricia’s side started to ring and she snatched up the receiver.
‘The Pope residence,’ she said officiously.
Philip paid no attention to the conversation until his wife remarked, ‘This is rather out of the blue. Why now, Declan?’
‘Declan Morris?’ he hissed at her, seeking confirmation it was indeed Katy’s former boyfriend, whom they hadn’t spoken to in eight years. The same man who had, at one point, been the police’s prime suspect in their daughter’s murder.
Patricia nodded vehemently.
She listened for a few moments then replied in a faltering voice, ‘Are you sure? Could it be someone playing a prank?’
Another pause.
‘Fine. Yes, we shall both be here. See you shortly.’
She hung up and turned to her husband, her shock palpable.
‘He’s coming round now.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘He read about the memorial on my blog and wants to come to Majorca for it. But that’s not all.’ Patricia sank down on the bed, clearly too stunned to stay standing. ‘He’s received an anonymous email from someone saying they know why Katy was murdered – because they were the person responsible.’
2
The boy bucked and thrashed in the pushchair as the woman hurried to fasten the billowing rain cover to its frame. Maggie was instantly reminded of her niece, Mae, who at the same age would have a similarly violent reaction to being sealed behind hers, however protective its intention. Now almost school age, Mae walked everywhere and had a prized umbrella covered in cartoon cats and dogs to shield her from sudden deluges like this one.
‘What are you grinning at?’
Maggie looked away from the window, but not before she saw the woman secure the last loop of the rain cover with a triumphant flourish. She then grabbed the pushchair’s handlebar and turned sharply in the direction of Upper Street.
‘Nothing,’ Maggie answered.
DS Andrew Mealing stared down at her with a look of ill-concealed contempt.
‘Really? Because it looked to me like you were daydreaming . . . again.’
Maggie bristled at his tone but said nothing. She had learned from experience that answering Mealing back only served to stoke his nastiness, like squirting lighter fuel on a barbecue.
‘Is there something you wanted?’ she asked instead, trying to appear impervious to the sneer on his face.
Mealing hadn’t always hated her. In fact, when she’d arrived at Islington six months ago from Mansell he couldn’t have been more reasonable, offering to show her the ropes and help her settle in. But she was never entirely comfortable in his presence and the constant monitoring soon planted the suspicion that he was trying to catch her out – a suspicion that was proved the day she unfortunately did make a mistake. It was a minor administrative infraction, easily corrected, but from that moment forward DS Mealing had taken every opportunity to question Maggie’s suitability for the Met.
He was subtle enough that his remarks went unnoticed by their colleagues, but she was under no illusion that he wanted rid of her from their squad. He would make digs about where she’d transferred from (‘Mansell’s in the back arse of beyond, isn’t it?’), her specialism as a family liaison officer (‘It’s a known fact women want to be FLOs because it’s a cushy job sitting on people’s sofas’), to questioning why their boss hadn’t trusted her with a bigger role in any investigation she’d worked on so far (‘He clearly thinks you’re not up to it’).
The last one rankled the most because Maggie was beginning to fear there was some truth in it. The Detective Superintendent said he wanted to be sure she was ready for the responsibility, because working on a Murder Investigation Team in London was very different to what she was used to, working with CID in the more rural Buckinghamshire, where Mansell was situated. But that sounded like an excuse and Maggie fretted that the real reason she was being held back was because the one time she had stepped up on a case, to the rank of Acting DS, there had been a terrible incident in which her colleague was killed. She had been exonerated of blame by an internal inquiry, but maybe that wasn’t enough to quash all doubt about her ability.
Mealing ignored her question and posed one of his own.
‘What are you working on?’
‘The Curtis statement.’
He leaned over Maggie’s shoulder to scan the witness statement from a stabbing in Highbury she’d been typing up.
‘Hmm. Well, you’ll have to leave that for a minute. You’re wanted downstairs.’
‘By who?’
‘Desk sarge says a woman’s come in wanting to report a historic crime. The boss said to give it to you, because everyone else is busy on more important stuff.’
Another dig that she ignored like all the others. At some point she had to hope Mealing would tire of picking on her.
‘No problem, I’ll head down there now.’
Before she had time to realize what he was doing and stop him, Mealing reached for her computer mouse and closed the statement with one click.
‘I hadn’t saved that last bit,’ she reacted angrily.
‘Whoops. I guess you’ll have to stay late tonight to redo it.’ Then he walked away, a malicious smirk spread wide across his face.
3
Maggie was still angry as she took a seat in the witness interview room next to reception, but did her best to hide it for the sake of the woman sitting opposite her. Lara Steadman had never been inside a police station before, a fact she revealed twice inside a minute of them meeting and once again as they sat down. Her nerves manifested in the jiggle of her left leg beneath the table and the tight clutch of her fingers around the strap of her handbag as it rested on her lap.
Forcing from her mind all thoughts of the revenge she’d like to exact on DS Mealing, Maggie rested her arms on the table, notebook open and pen poised.
‘You told the desk sergeant you wanted to report a crime that happened some years ago. Why don’t you give me the basic facts, then we can run through it in more detail?’
Lara bit down hard on her bottom lip as she nodded. She was immaculately made up, her make-up verging on professional, but a trace of red lipstick lined the bottom of her front teeth as she opened her mouth to speak.
‘I was drugged and held captive in someone’s flat while on holiday in Majorca ten years ago.’
Outwardly Maggie stayed impassive but inwardly she was frowning. However serious the crime sounded, the fact it had occurred abroad posed the biggest problem, as it was beyond the Met’s jurisdiction and techn
ically a matter for the police there.
Lara watched Maggie warily as she twisted the bag strap even tighter. Her impressive diamond engagement ring and matching wedding band hung loose on her finger and she had the haunted look of someone who hadn’t slept well, if at all.
‘Okay, that does sound serious,’ she said. ‘Let’s start from the beginning. When was this exactly?’
‘It was April 2009, not long after Easter, and I was on holiday with a bunch of friends – just us girls, no partners. On our third night there we went to a club. I’ll admit I drank a lot, we all did, but I know I wasn’t out of control. Then I had one more drink and the next thing I remember is waking up the next evening in a strange apartment. My friends assumed I’d gone off with some guy,’ she added, before Maggie could ask why her friends hadn’t noticed her leaving. ‘It was something I’d done in the past, on other holidays, even when I had a boyfriend waiting for me at home. But not that time, I swear. I wouldn’t have done that to Mike. We were getting married and I wouldn’t have cheated on him.’
Maggie inwardly flinched: she’d once slept with someone who was in a relationship and it had almost cost her dear.
‘When you’re with the right person, you don’t think about it,’ Lara continued. ‘Or I didn’t. Mike and I are still married,’ she said with a smile, her first since she’d sat down.
‘Did your friends see you talking to another man, and that’s why they thought you’d gone off with someone?’
‘No, they just assumed it, but I hadn’t spoken to anyone other than them in the club; I was on the dance floor for the most part.’
‘You don’t remember leaving?’
‘I do have a vague recollection of going to the toilet and feeling like I was going to be sick, and one of my friends checking on me, but then, after that, nothing.’
Lara gave a little shrug as though it was no big deal, but the unshed tears glossing her eyes told otherwise.
‘What do you remember from when you woke up?’ asked Maggie.
‘I came to on a sofa. My back was so stiff from the position I was in that I must’ve been lying there for ages.’ She dropped her gaze and her voice lowered too, as though she didn’t want to be overheard. ‘I’d accidentally wet myself. I must’ve been too out of it to get up and use the toilet.’
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