by Mark Ayre
At the mention of Eddie Dean; total surprise from both police officers. Enough to confirm Eddie was not the deceased.
Leaning forward, jabbing the table, Abbie said, “Who’s been murdered?”
“Tell me,” said Sanderson. “Why would you have been with Eddie at that time of night? Or any time. Last I heard, Mr Dean believed you were responsible for Danny’s death.”
“Well, you should work harder to keep on top of the town goss, shouldn’t you?” said Abbie.
“What would his wife think if she knew of your midnight meeting?” added Warren.
Frustrated, Abbie shook her head. “Jess knows. Why don’t you ring her or him and check my alibi for yourself? I think you’ll find it holds up. And while one of you is doing that, the other can tell me whose murder I’ve been arrested for. Is that not my right?”
Sanderson and Warren looked at each other. The latter wanted to reveal nothing, but the former took charge.
“Okay,” Sanderson said. “A deal.”
“I don’t need to do a deal,” said Abbie. “I’m not sitting here justifying myself to you when I don’t even know what I’m supposed to have done wrong. How am I to know anyone has even been killed?”
Warren rolled her eyes. Abbie didn’t rise to the bait.
“I get it,” said Sanderson. “So will you listen a minute, without getting irate, and we can move things forward?”
Abbie nodded. There was nothing to be gained in throwing up obstacles for the sake of it. Time was ticking. She needed to get out of here.
“If you explain why you were with Eddie around midnight last night,” continued Sanderson, “we’ll get someone to verify the alibi. While that’s happening, I’ll let you know who we suspect you of murdering. How does that sound?”
It still didn’t sound great. It required Abbie to put herself out there without guarantees. But she was the one locked up, arrested. If she didn’t do things their way, they could leave her a few hours then try again. Abbie couldn’t let that happen. If Abbie was to have any chance of saving Eddie, she had to give more than she would usually and be more honest than made her feel comfortable.
Leaning forward, tapping the table, Abbie said, “According to Eddie, Danny Dean and Leona Roberts were having an affair. Eddie believes Leona’s responsible for Danny’s death. Either because she ordered his murder, or because Francis killed him in a jealous rage.”
Warren whistled. Sanderson said, “Well, that is some—“
This time it was Abbie employing the forestalling hand. “Don’t get distracted. I’m here to explain my alibi. I’ve no interest in discussing Eddie’s theories.”
Unhappy with this push back, Warren was ready to argue. After touching his colleague’s arm, Sanderson nodded for Abbie to continue.
“Eddie asked to meet me last night. Until we were together, he didn’t reveal he was taking me to a bungalow he believed belonged to Leona. Only when we arrived did I realise he planned to confront her. He figured I’d help protect him if she brought heavies, hence the invite. Instead, I talked him down. Persuaded him he had nothing to gain and everything to lose. After that, we talked, and it turned out there would have been no confrontation anyway because Leona wasn’t there when we arrived, nor did she turn up.”
Abbie sat back. Allowed this to sink in. She had been creative with the truth. No outright lies had been told, but there were some pretty grievous omissions. She had confessed to going to the bungalow but had not mentioned that they broke in. Admitted that Eddie sought a confrontation but had not revealed Eddie’s desire to kill Leona. She had omitted entirely any mention of the money or Leona’s baby. None of this was pertinent to Abbie’s alibi, and she didn’t want to get Eddie in trouble.
“Well,” she said, after a period of silence, “are you going to check it out?”
Nodding, Sanderson looked to Warren. “We have the Deans’ number on file. Get someone to call to verify the alibi. If they have the same story as Abbie, we can get them down to make a formal statement later on.”
Warren rose. Left. Abbie resisted the urge to breathe a sigh of relief. There was still time. Even if Michael failed to get hold of Eddie, maybe the police would. Once they asked for him to verify Abbie’s alibi, he would know she was in prison. Surely such knowledge would dissuade him from visiting the Nightingale. From meeting Francis.
“Now your turn,” said Abbie. “Who did I supposedly murder.”
Sanderson finger-drummed the table. If he tried to put Abbie off again, if he so much as told her she had to wait until Warren returned, Abbie was likely to lose her cool. Right now, that was not something she could afford to do. Pressing her palms flat on the table, she took a breath and demanded calm of herself.
“Okay,” said Sanderson.
After drumming his fingers on the table again, he flipped open his file. From within, he produced an A4 photograph. He considered it a second, then slipped it onto the table towards Abbie.
“That was taken on a small common about five miles from where we now sit,” said Sanderson. “A young lady found the victim while walking her dog this morning around seven am. As you can imagine, she was in quite a bit of shock.”
Abbie could imagine. The body was on its back, limbs spread, eyes wide with what appeared to be terror. Maybe regret. The pale white skin contrasted with the dark red blood, which soaked into the vibrant green grass.
“Multiple stab wounds,” said Sanderson. “Like Danny.”
“Not the same,” said Abbie, without thinking.
“You don’t think so?”
“I don’t, and neither do you.”
“Go on,” Sanderson said, nodding at the picture.
“Danny’s killer didn’t know what they were doing. Their stabs were wild, thoughtless. The signs of an emotional rather than a professional killer.”
Sanderson tapped the photograph. “And this?”
“More methodical. Multiple stab wounds, but you have stomach, heart, throat. The stomach’s an easy target. Hit there first to slow the victim down. At that point, a stab to the heart or throat would finish the job quick. Both reveals her anger.”
“Her?”
Abbie looked up, met Sanderson’s eye. There was no point lying about it—nothing to be gained by hiding what she knew.
“I didn’t kill him,” said Abbie.
“Not saying you—“
“But I know who did,” Abbie interjected. “I know who killed Travis.”
It was 10.54 am.
Twenty-Seven
Again, Warren reentered. The water was all gone. Sanderson offered no one a drink.
“Come on then,” he said to Abbie. “Let’s have it.”
Warren was confused. She didn’t know what she’d missed. Abbie’s claim that she knew who killed Travis. That gave Abbie some small satisfaction.
Directing her answer to Sanderson, Abbie laid out her thought process.
Some of it anyway.
“I’m not here as a courtesy,” said Abbie. “I’m under arrest, so you must have what you believe to be compelling evidence that I killed Travis. What’s that? You know I was out of my hotel at the appropriate times, but why ask Glenda about me in the first place? I can only assume you traced Travis’ movements last night back to Clarissa, from who you learned how I came to find Travis to reclaim my Eastenders book late yesterday evening.”
Sanderson tapped the plastic bag on the table, slid it towards Abbie. Inside was the black book Abbie had yesterday filled with names she had found after a Wikipedia search.
“This book?” said Sanderson.
“That’s the one,” said Abbie.
Having earlier checked the book, Sanderson from memory recited the first few names. “Jake Wood, Scott Maslen, Patsy Palmer, Steve McFadden.”
“Eastenders actors,” said Abbie. “I told you yesterday about my nightmares. From them, I often wake in the grips of anxiety. To stop anxiety becoming panic and panic becoming a panic attack, I often travel to new towns for a couple of da
ys. Meet new people. Get wrapped up in murder investigations, that sort of thing.”
Sanderson did not laugh at the joke. Neither did Warren. Abbie continued.
“Any sufferer of anxiety will tell you it pays to have more than one method of combatting panic attacks. One of mine is filling books with the names of characters from popular soap operas. From memory, if I can. I smash it with Eastenders and Emmerdale. I’m crap with Coronation Street. I don’t know why.”
After hiding the actual black book in the hotel, Abbie had returned to her room, opened Wikipedia, and started writing down Eastenders actors in a new book. How glad she was to have taken the time. That book, full of the names of actors from a soap opera Abbie had enjoyed in her early teens, might just be her get out of jail free card.
“Travis stole this,” said Sanderson, tapping the book. “He believed it contained incriminating evidence.”
“He did,” said Abbie. “He used it to try solicit naked pictures from me. You’ve seen the texts?”
Sanderson nodded.
“Travis was an idiot,” said Abbie. “Sorry to speak ill of the dead, but it wasn’t just me he’d robbed. Did Clarissa tell you about his relationship with Francis?”
Sanderson had planned to push on the book. Something nagged at him. Told him there had to be more to it than Abbie had revealed, but what could he do? It was full of Eastenders actors. Full stop. Beyond instinct, he had no reason to disbelieve Abbie’s account.
At the mention of Francis, both Warren and Sanderson leaned forward.
“Clarissa mentioned a bag,” said Sanderson. “She was cagey and upset about the boy’s death. It was difficult to get much sense from her. Why don’t you fill us in?”
Abbie was glad to. Without mentioning Clarissa and Michael’s involvement, she filled the detectives in on the job Travis had performed for Francis: stealing Leona’s bag.
“And why would Francis do that?” asked Warren.
Abbie shrugged. “One can only speculate, but it makes me think about Eddie’s claim that Danny and Leona were sleeping together.”
Falling quiet, Abbie let the officers draw their own conclusions surrounding this. She saw no reason to mention her belief that Francis cared not about the affair. Rather about the potential baby.
Having given Sanderson and Warren enough time to draw their conclusions, Abbie leaned in again.
“Travis tried to blackmail Francis, but Francis wasn’t having any of it. He, Travis, then tried to blackmail me, but I found him, took back what he stole, then embarrassed him by chucking him out of Clarissa’s place. What do you think that would do to this particular teen?” Abbie shrugged again. “I don’t know, but I reckon it might make him reckless and desperate to prove, to himself, that he could make a plan work. He would still be thinking blackmail, and having struck out with Francis and me, where would he go next?”
Once more, she gave them enough time to process this and start making conclusions, then hit them again.
“You knew Travis had stolen from me, and I’d thrown him out of Clarissa’s place a couple of hours before someone killed him,” she said. “You knew I was out of my hotel around the time he died, but that isn’t enough to arrest me. You must have something else. One more thing which you might see as the final nail in my coffin.”
Raising a hand, Abbie lifted her hair, waved it in front of the cops, hinting at her guess.
“A witness,” she said. “They didn’t see me because I wasn’t there. They must have seen someone and reported what they saw to the police. What might they have seen that could have led to my arrest? My guess: a tall, slim woman with dark hair leaving the scene of the crime. Now, I don’t know what Leona looks like. If you did receive such a witness statement, I could have a good guess.”
Before Warren or Sanderson could so much as consider this, there was a knock at the door, and a constable entered. Rising with a glare at Abbie, as though she had caused the interruption, Warren went to greet the arrival.
They whispered for thirty seconds. Abbie tried to ignore the throbbing in her side, brought on by Ronson’s boot. Tried not to worry about what the constable was saying. Did he get through to Jess or Eddie? Was he telling Warren that Abbie’s alibi had been verified or that they might as well keep her until tomorrow because no one could find the Deans?
Warren returned. Sanderson looked her way.
“Well?”
Warren nodded. Abbie resisted the urge to puff out a breath in relief. Which was lucky because Warren followed her nod by saying to Sanderson, “We need to talk outside.”
Sanderson looked to Abbie, who said, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll see myself out.”
Sanderson rose. “We’ll be back soon.”
“No, no, no,” said Abbie. Her cool escaping. Before she could grab the reins, it was gone. “You can’t leave. I have an alibi. I haven’t done anything wrong. I didn’t kill Travis.”
“We’ll be back soon,” said Sanderson.
Before Abbie could argue, both he and Warren were gone.
Abbie was alone, with no idea what would happen next.
It was 11.06 am.
The clock would not stop ticking.
Abbie spent almost all her days and nights alone. Mostly, she was used to it. Usually, it was fine. She liked her own company.
In that interview room, after Sanderson and Warren departed, it was like torture.
Having feared one loose piece would bring tumbling to the ground her house of cards, circumstance had now set Abbie's house ablaze. Of her plans to stop Francis at midday and, in doing so, save Eddie, all that remained was ash.
This town had brought Abbie's past back to her like a reversing truck, travelling way too fast. Abbie hadn't moved quickly enough to escape being crushed.
Memories of Violet, Paul, her parents, and her baby continued to tumble through Abbie's mind like a landslide. Overlaying these were questions pertaining to today.
Had Michael reached Eddie in time, or was the dad-to-be even now travelling to meet Francis?
Having stabbed Travis to death in a moment of rage, where would Leona turn next?
Was Ronson still on the loose, looking for Abbie, ready to try again to kill her?
Could Abbie save Eddie, save Bobby, save Michael?
Was it already too late?
With Abbie on the edge of madness, of hurling furniture at the walls and screaming into the void, Sanderson returned.
Upon entering the room, he saw only a placid Abbie, sat in her chair, her palms flat on the table.
To the detective, Abbie said, "Nice coffee break, was it?"
Without responding, Sanderson sat. Gone were the files and the bag. Gone was the tape recorder. He crossed one leg over the other. He tapped his chin, but, unlike the tie adjustment, this didn't feel like a game. This was contemplation. Sanderson was unsure.
"Jessica Dean confirmed your alibi," he said at last. "We were unable to speak with Eddie. Jessica tells us he went for a walk early this morning and has yet to return. She confirmed he went after Leona last night. She fears he's gone after her again. Though she didn’t say as much, I believe her greatest fear is not that Eddie is looking for Leona, but that he has already found her.”
"Let's hope he hasn’t," said Abbie. "After all, we know what Leona's capable of."
Sanderson looked to the table, to where had lain the photo of Travis' body, though it was no longer there.
"Leona is tall and slim, with dark hair," said Sanderson. "In fact, the two of you bear a striking resemblance."
"But I'm prettier, right?"
"I believe Mrs Roberts was once a model," said Sanderson.
"I don't like what you're implying."
Ignoring this, Sanderson continued, “We can confirm someone who shares physical characteristics with Leona killed Travis, and we can probably get Clarissa to confess Travis had stolen Leona's bag. That's enough to bring Mrs Roberts in, but she'll have an alibi."
"So you don't think she's g
uilty?" said Abbie.
"Not what I said," said Sanderson. "Francis will click his fingers, and seventeen alibis will appear as if from nowhere. Wonderful trick. Like a magician. She's a clever woman. There'll be no evidence on the body."
"No offence," said Abbie, thinking of Eddie, "but that isn't my problem."
"No, I don't suppose it is," said Sanderson.
Reading the detective's expression, Abbie waited for the other shoe to drop.
"Except you're here until at least tomorrow unless I decide to let you go," he said. "So, I can make it your problem."
"Following my alibi, you have no grounds to hold me."
"I'm sure I can think of something."
"Fine," said Abbie. "Then I've changed my mind. I'd like to contact my attorney, and please remember, I understand my rights. You try to put off contacting my representation, I will report you the second I get out of this cell. Be that in ten minutes or ten hours."
There was a moment of silence, during which detainer and detainee locked eyes. Then Sanderson closed his and released a long, beleaguered breath.
"Francis and Leona Roberts are poison," he said. "They are tearing the soul out of my town. I want to stop them."
"Like I said, not my problem."
"And yet, we have two murders which are tearing innocent families apart, and we have a corrupt, vile couple implicated in both. Then there's you, tangled in the middle, and you say it's wrong place, wrong time, but how come I don't quite buy that? Same way I don't quite buy that what Travis stole from you was this book full of Coronation Street actors, or that you drove here on a whim following a nightmare?"
Abbie looked Sanderson dead in the eye and raised two fingers.
"Two things," she said before dropping the hand. "One, I'm done answering your questions. I want my attorney. And, two, it was Eastenders, not Coronation Street. I told you I was rubbish at Corrie; are you trying to upset me by opening these old wounds?"
"If only I found it so easy to joke about murder and the destruction of peoples lives," said Sanderson.
"Comes with practice," said Abbie.
Sanderson opened his mouth. If he tried to ask her another question, Abbie would ask again for her attorney. She didn't have time to play his games. Not any more.
