The Slow Road to Hell

by Grant Atherton

  It was a second or so before I realised I was gripping the arms of my chair. I relaxed my hands. "What frame of mind was she in before it happened? Did Wainwright notice anything?"

  "He was at work. She has her own key."

  "So she was there alone?"

  "It would seem so." He buttoned up his coat and said, "I'm going to have to get back, Mikey. There's a lot to do." He rose to leave. "But please let me know if you think of anything that might help. Even the smallest detail may be useful."

  "Of course I will" I rose too and walked him to the door.

  He still hadn't explained his early departure that morning. Or why he hadn't returned any of my calls. The shock at learning of Erin's death had put it out of my mind. But now I remembered. And I was puzzled. Tentatively, I asked, "Will I see you later?"

  He swallowed and said, "I'm going to be tied up for most of the day. Sorry. I do have a lot on."

  "Tonight?"

  "I need to get back to Charwell tonight. I don't have a change of clothes over here and I'm still wearing yesterday's."

  Why did I get the impression I was being given the brush off? I tried again. "You could bring some back with you and stay over."

  "Look, Mikey, it's best if I don't." His tone was almost pleading. "Right now I need to stay focused. No distractions."

  A heaviness settled on me and there was a sour taste in my mouth. "Is that what I am? A distraction?"

  "That's not what I meant."

  "I'm confused. I feel like I've done something wrong and I don't know what. After last night, I thought we were friends again."

  "Friends? I don't want ..." He cut himself short. The muscles in his jaw tightened. Always a sure sign he was annoyed or upset about something. I wished I knew what.

  I said, "Please talk to me, Nathan. I want to know where I stand."

  He rocked back on his heels and then tilted his head to one side and fixed me with a quizzical look as if weighing up his words. Finally, he said, "Okay. Time for some straight talking."

  "I just want you to be honest with me. I get the feeling you've been avoiding me."

  "After last night, I needed some time alone. That's why I didn't call you. I had some thinking to do."

  "What was there to think about?"

  "I asked you last night if it was a game changer. Remember? You brushed it aside like it wasn't important. Well, you need to know that to me it was important. Last night was important. I felt let down. I don't think it meant as much to you as it did to me."

  That was a shock. Right out of left field. How had I missed it? "Is that why you left without waking me?"

  He didn't reply. Just stared back at me with a pained look on his face as if unable to understand how I could be so slow on the uptake.

  I said, "You're wrong. If that's what you thought, you're wrong. I wanted to enjoy the moment without thinking about anything else. That's all. I was content, happy to be where I was. Right then nothing else mattered."

  "Well maybe it should have mattered. And I've asked you several times what your plans are. Each time you just put me off."

  "What are you saying? That last night was a mistake?"

  "I'm saying that last night made me think long and hard about where this was going."

  "And where did all this thinking lead you?"

  "You asked me to be honest with you, so I will be. You let me down once before. Badly. And it took me a long time to get over it."

  He paused again, and I sensed some unpleasant home truth was on the way.

  He continued. "I'm not sure I can trust you, Mikey. And I don't want to go through all that again."

  Trust? That was the issue? He didn't trust me?

  I was stunned.

  We'd spent a night of shared intimacy together, as close as two people can ever be, and he was telling me he didn't trust me.

  Resentment welled up inside me. "If you think so little of me, why did you bother to stay over?"

  "You're not being fair, Mikey. That's not what I think. I'm just not sure you know what you want right now. And I think it best if I took a step back."

  My throat tightened and when I spoke, my voice was strained. "I guess there's nothing more to say then, is there?"

  He was wrong. I did know what I wanted. But there seemed little point in telling him. No matter how much he tried to wrap it up in weasel words, his intention was clear enough. I didn't need it spelling out. He was giving me the push.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Deadlines. I hated them. On the positive side, they usually focused my attention remarkably well on the task in hand. Usually. But not today.

  I was fast approaching my publisher's deadline for a treatise on the abnormal psychology of serial killers, and I needed to buckle down to some serious in-depth research. Not the most lighthearted of subjects but it matched my mood.

  Right then, however, despite my best intentions, I found it difficult to concentrate on the warped mentalities of our more nefarious members of society. Nathan's not-quite-as-warped mentality was of more concern.

  Two days later, I was still brooding over our heart-to-heart. I sat at the kitchen table, a laptop in front of me surrounded by piles of books and papers, and stared into space, chewing the end of my pen while I chewed over his words.

  Had I got it wrong? Was he looking for a way to end our relationship before it started? Or was he being true to his word? Taking it slow? I vacillated between the two possibilities, confident and upbeat one moment, convinced that we would work through our differences, and depressed and downbeat the next, sure that he was determined to put a stop to any possible relationship. If only I could make up my mind one way or the other. Then at least I would be able to come to terms with the situation and decide how to handle it. And, perhaps, be able to concentrate on my work.

  Ted Bundy, one of America's more notorious serial killers, stared up at me from the cover of the book I was holding, a cheerful grin on his face. I glowered back at him and shoved the book to one side, reluctant to delve into it. I poured myself a glass of wine instead. This was one deadline I was going to miss.

  It was during one of my many breaks, frustrated at not being able to focus, that I learned of Adam Corby's arrest for his wife's murder.

  I hadn't heard from Nathan since his fond farewell speech - if that's what it was - so I was out of touch with what was happening on the front line of Elders Edge police force. It was Lowe who told me.

  I was over at the Fairview having coffee with Karen and trying to fend off questions about my meeting with Nathan. Lowe had dropped round on his way to the station to apologise for yet another missed date. While Karen sat and sulked over her coffee, I pumped Lowe for more information.

  "So it was his car that ran her down?" I said.

  "We found it abandoned on some waste ground on the other side of Tinkers Wood."

  "But you say he'd reported it stolen?"

  "Yeah, right. How very convenient."

  Karen interjected. "She was such a nice woman. What a terrible thing to happen." She pushed her empty mug away from her and rose from the table around which we'd all been seated. "I'll get another jug of coffee," she said, and left the room.

  While she was away, Lowe went into more detail about Corby's arrest, and explained how the car had been found during a routine patrol not long after it had been called in stolen.

  He said, "The car was damaged. A smashed front wing. And it was covered in blood. Forensics are all over it at the moment but I have no doubt they'll link it to Erin Corby's death."

  "What makes you so sure Corby was at the wheel?"

  "His alibi didn't stand up. And now - surprise, surprise - he can't remember where he was."

  Before I could push him for more details, Karen returned with the coffee and Lowe said to her, "I didn't know you knew Erin."

  Karen seated herself, poured herself a coffee, and passed the jug over to Lowe. "I didn't. I just met her the once when she came to see Mikey. But I had a long
chat with her. I liked her."

  Lowe filled his mug and put the jug on the table. "You have to wonder why he would want to kill her," he said. "But then there's no knowing what goes on behind other people's closed doors."

  Maybe he should be doing more than just wondering. He should be investigating what went on behind those closed doors and, at the very least, look for a plausible motive.

  "I have to say, I didn't take to him," Karen said. "I got the impression he neglected her, off out with his friends all the time. She seemed to spend all her time working, hadn't been out socially for weeks."

  I turned my attention to Lowe and said, "What was his alibi?"

  "First, he said he was at home alone. But he'd already told us he was out when his car was stolen. So that didn't stand up. Then he decided he was shopping in town. Trouble is, he can't remember what shops he went in and neither can any of the shopkeepers. And now the guy's changing his story every five minutes."

  For Lowe at least, it was cut and dried. No point exploring other options when a simple link presented itself. Corby owned the car that killed his wife. Ergo, Corby killed his wife.

  But something wasn't right. Abandoning the car and then reporting it stolen might make sense but the lack of an alibi was a different matter. If Corby had killed his wife, it would have to be premeditated, and only a fool would kill in such circumstances and not try to fabricate, in advance, a plausible account of his whereabouts. And Adam Corby hadn't struck me as being a fool. He wouldn't be left floundering like this if he had killed Erin.

  No, it didn't ring true. There had to be another explanation for his lack of a valid alibi. And only one explanation came to mind. One that would put him in the clear.

  Lowe finished his coffee and left for the station. I left soon after to avoid Karen interrogating me any more about my meeting with Nathan.

  Back home, I tried to get stuck into my research but I still couldn't concentrate. My attention was elsewhere. Not so much on Nathan this time. I couldn't stop thinking about the circumstances surrounding Erin's death. I didn't buy Lowe's interpretation of events.

  Eventually, I called Lowe at the station.

  "I've been going over what you told me about Corby," I said. "I think it's time we got on with those interviews."

  "Yes, of course," he said. "But there's no connection between this investigation and your father's murder."

  "I wouldn't be so sure, " I said. "And anyway, it's not him I'm interested in right now. I want you to re-interview Frances Trivett as a priority."

  CHAPTER FORTY

  We were back in Lowe's office. Nathan, Lowe and I. Lowe was leaning over the desk fiddling with the brightness control on the monitor. The image on the screen was of the interview room next door. Just three chairs were visible. The table had been removed at my request.

  "Thanks for this, Nathan," I said.

  It was only yesterday I'd asked Lowe to make Frances Trivett's interview a priority and Nathan had been quick to act in setting it up.

  He smiled. An easy relaxed smile. "It's not a problem," he said. "We were going to re-interview her anyway."

  Any apprehension I'd felt about seeing him again after the way our last encounter ended had been quickly dispelled. I'd been worried that he'd meant to put the dampers on our relationship and would try to distance himself. But he was surprisingly affable.

  He continued, "I'm not sure what you'll get out of it though."

  "We'll see."

  I'd already explained the procedure I generally followed for such interviews. For me, it was just another well-worn routine. One I'd gone through many times before.

  First, I observed the interviewee's reactions under questioning and noted any discrepancies between body language and verbal communication, any individual tics or tells that conflicted with their verbal responses.

  Once I'd assessed the veracity or otherwise of their disclosures and noted any possible weaknesses, I would introduce myself in my professional capacity and establish my credentials.

  Faced with the professional judgement of someone they accepted as an expert in the field, most subjects would give way when confronted by any evidence of deceit.

  And that was the next stage. Confrontation. Applying pressure specifically in those areas already flagged as potential trouble spots.

  Sometimes, it all went to plan. Other times, it took more effort. But I usually got there in the end.

  I asked, "Who's carrying out the interview?"

  Lowe answered. "Miles Barber." He finished fiddling with the monitor and leaned back in his chair. "He's good. An experienced interviewer. And he's already been briefed on what to ask."

  At that moment, the monitor screen showed Constable Barber usher Frances Trivett into the interview room and while they took their seats and made themselves comfortable, Lowe showed me how to use the microphone. "Press this switch here if you need a particular question asked" he said, pointing to the base of the microphone stand. "Barber is wearing an earpiece so he'll pick up any instructions we pass on to him."

  "Okay," I said.

  We sat together around the table and watched the screen.

  I wasn't having an easy time of this. Being around Nathan. I'd kept my feelings hidden for so long - even from myself - and now I'd finally come to terms with how I felt about him, it was a strain keeping up the just-good-buddies routine.

  He was friendly enough. I wasn't getting the cold treatment anymore. Or the seething anger. But that was part of the problem. Whenever he smiled at me with that big wide grin that made the left side of his cheek dimple, there was a tightness in my throat and I had to force myself to relax and smile back in that casual way that friends do.

  There had been a time, whenever we sat together like this, side by side, he would occasionally squeeze my thigh to emphasise a point he was making or slow punch my arm or wrap an arm around my waist. It was these small intimate gestures I missed. Those shared moments between lovers that I had taken for granted.

  How did he really feel? Was this as much a charade for him as it was for me? Or was he content to be just friends?

  I turned my attention to the screen. All thoughts of Nathan and my own problems would have to wait. This was going to need my full concentration.

  Frances Trivett was speaking. "Do I have to go through it all again?"

  "Nothing to worry about," said Barber. "In light of new developments, we're re-interviewing everyone who knew either the Reverend MacGregor or Dr Black. I understand Black was your doctor?"

  "Yes," Frances said. "And, of course, we knew him socially too."

  "So you would have no trouble recognising his voice?"

  "That's right. He has a very distinctive voice."

  "And there's no doubt that the voice you heard on ..." He paused, looked down at his notes and ran his finger down the page before looking up again. "... on the 3rd of February, was that of Derek Black?"

  Frances Trivett shuffled in her seat and crossed her legs, locking her ankles together. "None at all," she said, raising a hand to her throat.

  I leaned closer to the screen. "Look," I said, "you see what she did with her feet? That's why I wanted the desk removed. We could have missed that otherwise. And the hand. You see what she did?"

  "I see it," Nathan said, "but I don't know what it signifies, if anything."

  I said, "What you just saw was an innate response of the body's limbic system, the part of our brain that deals with autonomic reflexes."

  Nathan affirmed his understanding.

  Lowe looked confused. His own body language told me much about his inability to deal with novel ideas. But perhaps it wasn't the best of times to tell him so.

  Keeping part of my attention on the continuing interview, I said, "Look, whenever we're faced with a threatening situation, our bodies respond automatically."

  Nathan said, "The fight-or-flight response?"

  "Yes. It's one of two knee-jerk reactions we make when faced with danger."

&nbs
p; "I've heard of that," said Lowe.

  I continued. "Well, it's the wrong way around and it's incomplete. Our bodies respond to danger in one of three ways, and each of them is attempted in strict sequence. Freeze, flight or fight, in that order."

  "And how does that relate to what we just saw?" Nathan asked.

  Lowe grunted. He didn't sound convinced.

  This was another part of my well-worn routine. Having to explain and justify my particular field of study to an uncomprehending and unbelieving audience. To someone like Lowe, and to many others in the force I'd had to deal with, it was mumbo-jumbo, and I constantly had to prove myself, satisfy others that I wasn't a charlatan.

  I said, "She's displaying a consistent pattern of behaviours I would expect to find when someone is lying. For example, did you see the way she kept looking towards the door? That's the second response, flight."

  Lowe laughed and said, "She's hardly going to make a run for it."

  "Of course not. But what keeps her in place is her conscious awareness of the situation she's in. But at the subconscious level, she's looking for a means of escape. And so her body responds automatically."

  "Fascinating stuff," said Nathan.

  "Yes," said Lowe, not sounding in the least bit fascinated.

  I said, "I'm not suggesting it's easy to interpret. You need to take account of the subject's baseline behaviour and look for specific responses that deviate from the baseline."

  "That's all very well," said Nathan, "but we're going to need more than your interpretation of her body language. So far, we haven't found cause to disprove her version of events."

  "Well, let's see what we can do, shall we?" Rising to my feet, I said, "Let Constable Barber know I'm on my way in, will you? I've seen all I need to see."

  A moment later, I was in the interview room, reintroducing myself to Frances. I drew up a chair next to Miles Barber and sat down.

  She looked surprised. "I hadn't realised you were taking part in the investigation." She appeared resentful. A far cry from her behaviour at our first meeting.

  "It's what I do for a living, Frances. I put together psychological profiles of suspects and witnesses on behalf of the police. Part of my work involves matching interviews against behaviour patterns as a way to assess if a witness is telling the truth or not." So she would be in no doubt about my authority, I added, "I've worked for many forces over the years with excellent results. I'm very good at what I do."