The woman detective has kind eyes. Quite serious. The same woman who came to the house yesterday afternoon. She’s the sergeant but she does seem like the sort of person that Yvonne could talk to. The young man sitting next to her is Asian and extremely handsome. He could be a male model or an actor. With looks like that, why would he want to be a policeman? It makes no sense to Yvonne.
The room is small and rather smelly. These institutional places are never clean. The police sit across the table from her, arranging papers in front of them. They offer her a plastic bottle of water. She refuses. You can’t rely on these sort of bottles being BPA-free.
She waits. Penny’s instructions have been clear: don’t say anything. The lawyer sitting beside her is a funny little man. Yvonne is not quite sure what to make of him. His suit looks cheap and she can’t remember his name. Wood? Ward? That’s always the problem in the first twenty-four hours of being sober. Her head’s like a sieve. She can’t remember a thing. Penny has given her some tramadol that she got on prescription and that’s muted the headache a little. But it leaves her feeling spacey. She finds it hard to concentrate.
The lawyer has repeated to her several times what Penny told her: when the police ask you a question, you simply reply ‘no comment’. If they want to accuse her of a crime, he said, it’s up to them to prove the case. Her most sensible course of action is to admit nothing.
Yvonne wonders if she is a bad person. Greg certainly thought so. That’s what he used to tell her. She was a bad wife, a bad mother, a drunk, a disgusting slut that no man could bear to fuck. When he got in one of his rages, it all came out. Yvonne is not stupid, she knows what they all think. They think that she killed her husband. That’s why she’s here. And if that’s the case then she certainly is a bad woman. But she doesn’t care what anyone thinks, she’ll do whatever she has to in order to protect Aidan. He’s a good boy and whatever he did, he was trying to protect her.
The woman detective is smiling at her. With a decent haircut and some make-up, she could almost be attractive.
She’s saying all this legal stuff again. The same rigmarole they went through when they came to the house this morning. It seems stupid to Yvonne that they keep repeating it.
‘Do you understand what that means?’ says the woman detective. ‘That you’re still under caution.’
Yvonne nods. She doesn’t. Not exactly. But you can’t let these people think you’re stupid.
The woman detective is still looking at her.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Of course I understand.’ She turns to the lawyer. ‘Or is this where I’m supposed to say “no comment”?’
He shifts in his chair. ‘Once they actually ask you a question,’ he mumbles.
‘But surely that was a question.’
She shrugs and looks at the handsome young man. He grins. He has lovely teeth.
‘Would you like me to call you Mrs Porter?’ says the woman detective. ‘Or can I call you Yvonne?’ She laces her fingers as she speaks. Her nails are short but well manicured and clean. Yvonne knows that personal grooming and hygiene are important indicators of the nature of a person. Someone with clean fingernails is someone you can trust. Perhaps she can relax just a little. Penny is not right about everything. Far from it. And she lies. Probably best not to think about that just now.
‘Now Greg’s dead,’ she says with a smile, ‘I might even go back to my maiden name, but, yes, I’m happy for you to call me Yvonne.’
Making a joke helps; she doesn’t want them to know how much she misses him. How she wishes it could all have been different. If she could’ve just been the kind of wife he wanted. Why couldn’t she?
‘Well, Yvonne,’ says the woman detective. ‘We just want to find out what really happened on the night that your husband died. Keeping secrets can be a terrible burden. People have fights, sometimes things just get out of hand. If you talk about this, you may be surprised to find that you feel much better.’
Yvonne glances at the lawyer. He’ll rat on her to Penny if she doesn’t do what she’s told. But what the hell? At this point she could really do with a glass of wine. Don’t think about that.
She huffs. ‘I’ve already told you it wasn’t Aidan.’
‘And you know this how?’
‘He’s saying that because he thinks it was me. And he’s trying to protect me.’
‘Was it you, Yvonne?’ The woman detective is smiling but her gaze is unnervingly direct.
Yvonne sighs. ‘I want to tell the truth,’ she says.
‘I know you do,’ says the woman detective.
‘Okay,’ she says, ‘thing is, I don’t actually remember what happened that night and the reason I don’t remember is because I was drunk. Greg went out shortly after supper, and I knew he was going to see her. So that’s when I started to drink. I think I passed out. Later on I woke up on the floor.’
‘Who do you mean when you say her?’ says the woman detective.
‘His mistress,’ says Yvonne. ‘Everyone thinks I didn’t know what was going on. He thought I was too stupid to work it out.’
‘To work out that he had a mistress?’
‘Greg said she was his business partner. She even came for drinks with her husband. But I suppose, over there, they have a more permissive attitude.’
‘Over there?’
‘Spain. I suppose it’s the climate. Fewer clothes, more fucking.’
‘And you think Greg was having sex with this Spanish woman?’
‘Of course he was. I’m not stupid. I knew he was seeing someone.’
‘Were you jealous?’
Yvonne considers this. It’s a question she can’t answer. The lawyer shifts in his chair; he’s trying to catch her eye.
Jealous? How can she even begin to explain? Sex is one thing. She didn’t care who he had sex with. But he liked spending time with her, thought she was clever. Yvonne had always tried to do everything he wanted. The house, the garden. She’d kept it all looking perfect. And herself. She tried to look perfect too. But it was never enough. Why didn’t anyone ever see that she was clever too? But they didn’t.
She realises Penny and the lawyer were right, she should just say ‘no comment’.
‘No comment,’ she says.
‘Okay,’ says the woman detective. ‘Let’s go back a bit. You can’t remember much about that night because you were drinking. Are you still drinking?’
‘No. I’m back on the twelve steps,’ says Yvonne. ‘I’ve done it before. In rehab. I know I have to for the children’s sake.’
The woman detective glances at her gorgeous sidekick. They’re up to something. He gets out his phone and starts scrolling.
‘Are you attending AA meetings?’ asks the woman detective.
‘Oh, those things are just ridiculous,’ says Yvonne. ‘Stupid people talking about their stupid personal problems. I can’t be bothered with any of that. There’s only one way to stop drinking. You just stop drinking.’
Of course, she did talk to Dr Davenport about her private life. Sometimes. But he was paid handsomely not to blab. That was the whole point.
The hunky cop hands the woman detective his phone. She holds it up and shows Yvonne a picture.
‘Do you know who this is?’ asks the woman detective.
Yvonne looks and it’s like a kick in the gut. And she knows what that feels like, courtesy of her dead husband. It doesn’t make sense. It’s her! But why does the gorgeous young cop have her picture on his phone? Surely her tentacles can’t extend that far?
She looks at him and mutters, ‘You know her?’
‘Can you tell us who she is?’ says the woman detective gently.
‘It’s her!’ says Megan. The pain inside just explodes. Tears are welling up and she can’t stop them. ‘It’s bloody well her!’
‘The woman you were talking about, who you suspect was your husband’s mistress? What’s her name, Yvonne?’
‘Elena. Bloody Elena!’
‘An
d she’s Spanish?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know her second name?’
Yvonne is sobbing. ‘That bitch stole my husband! If I was going to kill anyone, I’d kill her!’
Forty-Three
Monday, 12.46 p.m.
The simmering anger in the room makes the narrow confines of Slater’s office feel claustrophobic. Slater is standing behind her desk, which takes up most of the floor space. She has her arms folded and a frown on her face. Megan is in one corner facing off against Collins in the other. He’s deadly pale, hands on hips and a bullish expression.
‘It makes this woman Elena a viable alternative suspect,’ says Megan. This is so blindingly obvious to her. Why can’t he see it?
‘You didn’t even show her the phone footage of her husband beating her and ask her about that,’ says Collins. ‘That was the strategy we agreed. It clearly establishes motive.’ He’s quietly seething. Megan can feel it.
‘Jim’s got a point,’ says Slater.
‘Oh for Chrissake,’ says Megan. ‘It was obvious that wouldn’t work. She’s not going to confess to murder. Why? Because she’s an alkie who hardly knew what fucking day it was.’
‘We don’t know that,’ says Collins. ‘She could just be making all this up.’
Megan knows she isn’t. She only had to look at Yvonne Porter and she knew. The fact he beat her was irrelevant because Yvonne blamed herself for it. And Megan knows exactly what that’s like: loving a man who hurts you. She can still feel the pain and shame of her relationship with Zac Yilmaz.
‘Look,’ says Megan. She glances at Slater for support. How the hell can she explain this? If you’ve never been in that mindset, how would you know? ‘I think the abuse is beside the point. You heard what she said. She blames the other woman. Why? Because she still loves him in spite of what he did to her. If she’d gone down there on Tuesday night, even supposing she was capable of getting there, she’d’ve bashed Elena’s brains in, not Greg’s.’
Collins is not listening. He’s just waiting to make his next point.
‘And on top of this,’ he says. ‘You videoed this woman talking to Barry Porter yesterday. I don’t understand why you’ve been keeping that secret.’
That’s the problem. He thinks he’s been kept out of the loop.
‘We weren’t keeping it secret. We just didn’t know if it was relevant. What crossed my mind at the time was that it might be useful for the NCA inquiry. Lateral thinking, Jim? Ever hear of that?’
Collins just glares at her. If looks could kill.
‘Okay,’ says Slater. ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere.’
‘There has to be proper respect for the chain of command, ma’am,’ says Collins. ‘Otherwise how do we proceed efficiently?’
‘Oh fuck that!’ says Megan. They’re wasting time.
‘Megan, enough!’ says Slater.
‘I think, ma’am, that DS Thomas should be taken off this case. As SIO I think you should recognise how inappropriate her approach and attitude is.’
Me, inappropriate?
Now Megan is spitting mad; the sheer hypocrisy of the man coupled with his arrogance makes her see red.
‘And what’s your approach, Jim?’ she says. ‘Try and fit up Yvonne Porter, like you tried to fit up my sister?’
‘You need to control your temper, Megan,’ says Slater. ‘This kind of behaviour is not acceptable on my team.’
‘And what is acceptable?’ says Megan. ‘Is it all about results? Doesn’t matter if we get the right person, just so long as we get someone. So we intimidate a vulnerable, mixed up alcoholic into confessing to something she didn’t do. And that’s justice?’
Slater’s lips are pursed. She’s standing very still. Megan knows she’s blown it.
‘Jim, give us a minute,’ says Slater.
Megan catches his eye. He’s smirking. He thinks he’s won.
‘Certainly, ma’am,’ he says.
He goes out of the office and closes the door carefully behind him.
Laura Slater shakes her head wearily and plonks down in her chair. Then she sighs.
‘Why do you have to be such a fucking headbanger, Megan?’ she says bitterly. ‘I hate bad language. But, by God, you make me swear.’
‘I’m sorry, boss.’ Megan wants to feel contrite but, truth is, she doesn’t.
‘No, you’re not.’ Slater huffs again. ‘You’re an intelligent woman. Has it never occurred to you that, in certain circumstances, being right is not necessarily an advantage?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Oh, don’t try and be cute! You’ve been married and you’ve been in this job long enough to know that, unfair as it might seem, it’s down to us to manage the male ego. You do not get a man who feels weak to agree with you by telling him how weak he is.’
‘I know that,’ says Megan with a sigh. ‘But don’t you get bored with always having to make it all right for the Collinses of this world?’
‘Of course I do. But this is my job. That’s why it’s called management. It’s a sexist world. Get over it!’
‘You may not believe this,’ says Megan. ‘But I have been trying to get on with him. I do have some sympathy for him. He’s had cancer; I know it’s tough.’
‘The other problem,’ says Slater, ‘is that if he feels you’re pitying him, you’re going to get an even worse reaction. Surely you can relate to that.’
Megan nods. She meets Slater’s eye. ‘I am sorry,’ she says. ‘Truly. Maybe you should take me off the case.’
‘Oh yeah, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?’ says Slater with a cynical sigh. ‘A moment ago you were shouting about justice for Yvonne Porter. You really want to abandon her to DI Collins’s approach?’
Megan smiles to herself. Slater is spot on. She knows exactly which buttons to press.
‘No, boss,’ she says. ‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘Take Vish and see what more you can find out about this Elena. And stay out of Collins’s way.’
‘What are you going to do with Yvonne Porter?’
‘I’m going to release her under investigation. We’ve got her fingerprints. But we’re still waiting for DNA on the hammer. Until we get that, we can’t confirm it’s the murder weapon. Plus CSI have also downloaded a huge amount of material from the Porters’ home security cameras. It seems Greg Porter had quite an elaborate system. Cameras all over the house, which he accessed from his phone. He certainly liked to keep tabs on them all. Once we break that down I hope we can establish who came and went from the house at the relevant times.’
‘Do you think the prints on the potential murder weapon will belong to Yvonne Porter?’
‘Probably not. I’ll know in about half an hour. But they may well belong to Elena. So you’d better get on and find her.’
Forty-Four
Monday, 2.05 p.m.
They drive to Torquay in silence. Their hope is that Barry may shed some light on Elena’s whereabouts. Vish shoots a concerned glance at Megan from time to time; he’s well aware of the row that took place in Slater’s office. Everyone is. But he has the good sense to keep quiet.
Megan walked straight out of the building and phoned Vish from the car park, where he joined her. She found her hands were trembling and she felt sick. At first she couldn’t work out why she was so badly affected. She’d done her job, interviewed a suspect. There was a disagreement over the approach. Nothing that out of the ordinary. Collins was being an arse. Nothing out of the ordinary there either. Then she simply lost it. She kicked off big time and she didn’t care. It was stupid stupid stupid!
The anger has receded and in the backwash she feels shaky and drained. She needs time to recover. She gazes out of the car window at the greening countryside. The southern flank of Dartmoor rises up and dominates the skyline. A few days of bright sunshine and the hedgerows are bursting with white splashes of hawthorn blossom. Megan wishes she could put names to the magnificent trees t
hat sweep by, fringing the road. She feels edgy and out of place in this flourishing landscape and also in herself. But in the murky recesses of her mind, she knows what’s going on. Moretti would have a field day.
On the surface she and Yvonne Porter couldn’t be more different. And yet deep down there’s a connection and Megan wants to protect her. Why does any woman love a man who beats her? For the money and the posh house? Out of a lack of self-worth? Or for a completely different reason.
When Megan went undercover she knew what she was getting into. She came into his world pretending to be an agency temp; that was her cover, working in one of the businesses that Zac Yilmaz used as a front. She was there to quietly gather intel. She didn’t expect to catch his eye. She didn’t think she was attractive enough. But he took one look at her and knew what he wanted. The excitement of it took her breath away. The charisma and sexual energy that he focused on her was something she’d never experienced before. He wasn’t conventionally good-looking. Balding, shorter than her and at least fifteen years older, but he had a presence that was electric. Raw power. She always knew that if he found out who she really was, he’d kill her. But did fear fuel the intensity of the passion? Knowing the smallest slip could spell disaster?
As Vish turns into the car park above the harbour, Megan’s phone buzzes. She glances at it. It takes a moment to register. Ted Jennings. Again? Why is he calling her? It doesn’t make sense. He told Collins that he planned to redeem himself by chasing Bridger. And he wanted Collins’s help. So why’s he hassling her? The call goes to voicemail then a text pops up from him. ‘Please call me’ is the gist. Written in upper case with exclamation marks. Then a second text arrives: I don’t know who else I can trust.
Megan gets out of the car. On top of everything else she can’t get entangled in some stupid melodrama that Ted Jennings is trying to engineer in order to prove what a good cop he is. They’ve never got on that well and are certainly not mates.
Close to the Bone: An addictive crime thriller with edge-of-your-seat suspense (Detective Megan Thomas) Page 19