by Eva Dolan
She dabbed at her eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Sorry, I keep thinking I’m done but I’m not.’
Unprompted she launched into a speech about what a valued member of staff Josh had been, so polite and considerate, excellent with the patients, always ready to help out when they were stuck for cover at weekends. Everybody loved him.
‘It must be hard for you,’ Zigic said, trying to tactfully bring the woman’s reminiscences to a halt now that they had circled back to where she started. ‘We’ll try to keep this brief. We’d like to talk to Portia Collingwood, we believe she’s here today.’
Laura blinked at them. ‘Why would you need to speak to Mrs Collingwood?’
‘We just have some questions for her,’ Zigic said evenly. ‘She is in today?’
‘Let me check,’ she said, her mouth set in a prim line, as she tapped at her keyboard, long pearlescent nails skipping around. ‘She was in this morning, but she works at City Hospital on Wednesday afternoons. You’ll have to speak to them, sorry.’
Ferreira watched her knit her fingers together on the desk, closing herself off from further questions. It was a strange reaction, especially for someone who had been so emotional when they walked in.
‘Did Dr Ainsworth and Mrs Collingwood work together very often?’ she asked.
‘I don’t believe their departments crossed over at all,’ Laura said, inclining her head at an awkward angle. ‘To the best of my knowledge they don’t know one another.’
‘And you’d know that? Working in the HR department.’ Laura didn’t answer, must have heard the insinuation Ferreira was trying to keep out of her tone. ‘That would be part of your remit, yes? Staff relations?’
The tilt of Laura’s head became slightly more painful-looking. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.’
Zigic cleared his throat. ‘Have there been any complaints recently about Dr Ainsworth?’
Laura bristled visibly. ‘What kind of complaints?’
‘From patients,’ Zigic said. ‘Anyone who didn’t feel he’d done his job as well as they’d like.’
‘Josh was an excellent doctor and we provide the very highest-quality health care here,’ Laura said, sharply, drawing herself up higher in her seat. ‘We have been rated good in all inspection criteria for the past six years. Our reports are in the public domain if you wish to read them for yourself.’ She pursed her lips, took a moment. ‘I am frankly amazed that you might think Josh brought this on himself somehow.’
Ferreira glanced over at Zigic, meeting his eye and seeing that he thought they were done here.
‘Thank you very much for your help,’ she said, as they both rose from their chairs. ‘We’ll be in touch if there’s anything else.’
Outside in the car, Zigic looked thoughtfully towards the hospital’s glass façade.
‘Is it me or does every woman we speak to about Josh Ainsworth seem to have some degree of a crush on him?’
‘No, it’s absolutely not you,’ Ferreira said. ‘I suppose he must have just been one of those guys.’
‘Nice, you mean?’
She smiled at him. ‘Sure, nice.’
‘Not nice then?’ he asked.
‘Nice guys have long-term girlfriends or very contented wives,’ she told him. ‘Like you do. Men who inspire crushes in every woman who brushes past them are … well, they’re a breed apart and in my experience they generally know it.’
There was a faint trace of a blush underneath his beard and that only made her smile deepen. He really was a sweet little boy trapped in the body of a forty-something Slavic manbear, she thought.
‘What does that mean for our case?’ he asked.
‘It means there are probably a load more women in his phone that we need to be talking to.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The office was in a spasm of activity when they returned. The team working on Adams and Murray’s attempted murder gathered around as Murray briefed them on a new development in their missing suspect George Batty’s whereabouts. Colleen’s blood was up, her movements sharp and jerky as she paced in front of the board, detailing the discovery of a friend of the missing man who had a holiday place in southern France, which they now believed he was heading for.
As Ferreira dumped her lunch on the desk, Murray despatched two DCs to go and bring in the man so she could question him.
At the other end of the open-plan office, their own investigation was proceeding more quietly but Ferreira was pleased to see DC Weller concentrating on the task he’d been given for the day, his screen displaying Josh Ainsworth’s financial records, a pad next to him full of notes.
He was the kind of officer who preferred to be out in the field, she knew, but he needed to get used to this kind of careful, methodical work if he was ever going to become a worthwhile and competent detective. Because that was what underpinned every epic showdown in the interview room, every cat-and-mouse game you played with a suspect: the accumulation of information which you threw at them, one piece after another, until their protestations of innocence broke down in the face of an undeniable reality.
Zigic disappeared into his office, going to chase up Kate Jenkins and the forensics report they were in desperate need of. Despite what he’d promised as they left Long Fleet, she could tell he was still hoping for a more personal, less politically delicate explanation for Ainsworth’s murder, and he was banking on something from forensics to allow him to lead the investigation in that direction.
She understood the pressure he was under, guessed DCS Riggott had already spoken to him about it, even if he’d chosen to keep the discussion to himself for the time being. She wondered what decision she would make in his position, if she would ever be able to play that game, the one which got you to inspector and beyond. Deep down she suspected she wouldn’t.
Ferreira unpeeled the lid of her quinoa salad and began trawling for information on Portia Collingwood as she ate. Wanting to get a feel for the woman before they went to speak to her at City Hospital. Ferreira had called from the car, found out that Collingwood was in surgery right now and would be for another hour at least.
No criminal record, but she hadn’t really been expecting one.
A patchy social media presence that was entirely professional on Twitter, focusing on her work as an advisor and occasional speaker, the charities she worked with encouraging girls to go into the medical sector and research roles, concentrating on trying to level the playing field for those from traditionally under-represented backgrounds. Maybe that was one thing she had in common with Josh Ainsworth, a social conscience.
Her Instagram presence was very different. So personally revealing that Ferreira was surprised she didn’t have it set to private. But it was easy to kid yourself that no one was interested, she supposed, that you weren’t worth spying on. Or perhaps Collingwood had an exhibitionist streak, like almost everyone else who used the site.
Her photos were aspirational, intimate and posted in flurries. The places she took her young daughter, the romantic dinners she shared with her husband, the antique shop finds and blowsy bouquets she bought ‘just because’.
From the outside the Collingwoods looked like a model family, the kind you could use to sell upmarket SUVs or ethically sourced knitwear.
Was she really still seeing Ainsworth on the side, Ferreira wondered, spearing another piece of chicken from her salad.
The last series of photos Collingwood had posted were from a Sunday afternoon trip to a local stately home. A picnic in a wicker basket, a plaid rug on the grass, her husband grinning boyishly as a tame deer came and took an apple right out of his hand.
Could Portia Collingwood have murdered Josh Ainsworth on Saturday night and then gone home to her family as if nothing had happened? Found the picnic basket in the utility room and placidly made up their sandwiches, cutting the crusts off and wrapping them in parchment paper. Could she have gone out the next morning and given nothing away?
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sp; You’d have to be a psychopath, Ferreira thought. But Collingwood was a trauma surgeon, well accustomed to managing risk and stress, to keeping her hands steady while her heart and mind were racing.
‘I spoke to the postie,’ DC Parr said, coming straight over to her desk. He smelled faintly of weed and seemed to notice her catch the scent. ‘He’s got back problems apparently. It’s medicinal. I didn’t think it was worth making anything of it.’
‘Not unless he did rob Ainsworth,’ Ferreira commented. ‘But you don’t think so, do you?’
‘I’d be surprised,’ Parr said, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his slightly dated grey suit trousers. ‘He’s ex-army, pretty upstanding sort of bloke, and his husband’s a coder so they’re not short of money. I can’t see any reason why he’d pinch a couple of hundred quid’s worth of tech.’ He shrugged. ‘Difficult to know for sure. But my gut says no.’
Ferreira considered it for a moment. Parr had been about long enough to know when he was being sold a line, but he also had a hard-wired deference to anyone he thought was ‘the right kind of person’. A blind spot she doubted he’d ever get over.
‘Alright, not much else we can do,’ she admitted.
He headed for his desk and she called him back.
‘Zach, I need you to see what the situation with Ainsworth’s holiday was. The brother said he was cycling in Uganda. Just check he was where was supposed to be for me, okay? Rob’s going through his financials, he should have phone records coming through too. Check everything lines up, yeah?’
Parr half turned on his heel. ‘Anything else, boss?’
‘Keep an eye on the tip line for me?’
‘Sure thing.’
‘Keri, what’s happening with the couple from the cottage next door?’ she asked.
Bloom hunched her shoulders defensively. ‘Still no word, Sergeant.’
‘What the hell are they doing?’ Ferreira threw herself into her seat. ‘Who goes this long without looking at their phone?’
‘Maybe they did it,’ Weller piped up, not lifting his eyes from his screen, and Ferreira caught the hitch of a smirk across his cheek.
Zigic came out of his office, stretched his neck with a crunch she heard across the room. He glanced at the board as he passed it, not enough progress made in the last hour or so to require any more attention.
‘Portia Collingwood’s out of surgery,’ he said.
Ferreira grabbed her bag. ‘Hit her while she’s shattered, right?’
‘It’s not always a fight, Mel.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
They found Portia Collingwood sitting in the corner of the cafeteria at City Hospital, looking less polished than she did in the photograph that was stuck up in the suspects list on Josh Ainsworth’s board. She’d been in surgery three hours by Zigic’s reckoning and he guessed she was probably even more tired than she looked, as she toyed with a slice of chocolate cake, probing at it with the tines of her fork but not actually cutting any off to eat.
A guilty conscience or a stomach full of grief, he wondered.
She stood sharply as they reached her table, and they didn’t even have a chance to introduce themselves before she spoke.
‘I think this is a conversation we should have in my office.’
It was a conversation for an interview room, Zigic thought, but he decided to let her feel in control for a while, was curious what she would admit to while she still believed she was driving proceedings.
They followed her along the corridors, up a stairwell and into a quieter area of consulting rooms and empty waiting areas, to her office. She opened the door and ushered them in, closing it behind them with a deliberation and slowness that he read as an act of acceptance. Or maybe just preparation.
Her office was small and drab and grey, one window but she had the blinds drawn at it and the sill was lined with textbooks. There were files piled up on her desk, more on the cabinets, but she’d made space on the shelves for a series of awards and framed photographs of her with the local MP and one where she was curtseying to a minor royal, more showing her with groups of teenaged girls in school uniforms. There were thank-you cards dotted around and on her desk a gift-wrapped box he guessed was from another happy patient.
Portia Collingwood unbuttoned the jacket of her smart grey linen suit jacket and sat down. She wore a small gold cross and a saints medal high in the neck of her white silk blouse.
‘I was intending to visit you after my shift today,’ she said, as if this interruption was an unreasonable breach of some agreement they had already made. ‘I’m sure you can appreciate how difficult it is for me to get away.’
‘You didn’t have a chance any other time between Saturday night and now?’ Ferreira asked.
‘I didn’t know what had happened to Josh until I saw the news this morning,’ Portia Collingwood said icily. She shifted her gaze back to Zigic. ‘I’m not an idiot, Inspector, and I’m sure you aren’t either. I’m not going to try and deny being at Josh’s house on Saturday evening.’
‘That’s a good start,’ he said, knowing the denial would come next.
‘I have no reason to try and mislead you because, obviously, I’m not responsible for what happened to him.’
‘For his murder,’ Ferreira said.
Portia swallowed, dipped her head for a moment. ‘Yes, for that.’
‘Why were you at Josh’s house?’ Zigic asked.
She shot him an incredulous look. ‘For sex, of course.’
‘It isn’t the only option,’ he commented.
‘Please, can we dispense with the play of ignorance.’ She put her hands up, impatient already, and they’d hardly begun. She was nervous, he realised. And guilty or innocent she was right to be. ‘Josh and I had a relationship several years ago that neither of us wanted to pursue into marriage. I am married now, but we continued to see each other occasionally because we enjoyed sleeping together.’
Was this bluntness a ploy, he wondered. It was a surprisingly common one. Be brutally honest about the things you knew the police would already know in the hope that they would believe everything else you told them.
‘I am quite prepared to cooperate with you in any way I can,’ she said, showing him a perfectly open face. ‘But I would greatly appreciate it if we could proceed with some discretion. I have my family to think of.’
‘Was your husband aware of your relationship with Josh?’ Ferreira asked, tapping her pen against her notepad.
‘He was not. And I’d prefer to keep it that way.’
Zigic nodded, although it was a naïve wish on her part. She might think her husband was unaware of her affair but in his experience people were never as adept at hiding infidelity as they thought they were. Just because Mr Collingwood hadn’t confronted her it didn’t mean he knew nothing about it.
But they could come back to that.
‘Tell us what happened on Saturday night.’
‘I arrived at Josh’s place around six,’ she said. ‘We had a glass of wine, we had sex. Josh ordered a pizza and when it arrived we ate it. I had another small glass of wine and I left.’
‘At what time?’
‘Around nine.’
‘Where did your husband think you were?’ Ferreira asked, needle in her tone.
‘My husband,’ Portia said, staring back at her, ‘is away in Berlin for work, so I didn’t need to concoct some story for him.’
‘Who was looking after your daughter?’
A flash of a cold smile. ‘We have an au pair. I told her I’d been called in for an emergency consult.’
‘Is that your usual cover story?’
‘It is,’ she said, lifting her chin defiantly. ‘An advantage of our chronic underfunding here. I can be needed at the drop of a hat.’
‘So, you’re a good liar,’ Ferreira commented.
‘I’m not misleading you,’ Portia said firmly. ‘I may not be the perfect, faithful wife but that doesn’t make me a murderer.’ She touched
the cross around her neck. ‘I loved Josh. We just couldn’t live together. I needed somebody more predictable and dependable. That’s what Alistair gives me.’
‘You don’t seem particularly upset about his murder.’
Ferreira was pushing her harder now and Zigic knew he was soon going to have to pull her back or take this conversation into the station. He was already regretting giving Portia Collingwood so much leeway.
He didn’t have her pegged for a killer, that was the problem. She was barely eight stone, he guessed, her wrists so slim he doubted she was physically capable of wielding the table leg that killed Josh Ainsworth.
But looks could be deceptive and rage could make you strong enough to do amazing and terrible things.
‘I’m not going to cry just to make you believe me,’ Portia said flatly. ‘I’m heartbroken about Josh. When I saw the news this morning, I felt like somebody had cracked my back open and filled my body up with ice water. I still feel like that. I couldn’t cry then and there because I was giving my daughter her breakfast and how would I explain myself to her? I just changed channels on the TV.’ Her small, pale hand was curled into a fist, the bones of her knuckles a starker white, painfully prominent. ‘I haven’t cried since and I’m not even sure I’m going to because if I do I might never stop, so I think the best option is never letting it start in the first place.’
She sounded genuine, Zigic thought. Barely supressed emotion vibrating her throat, her pulse visibly beating there. The kind of reactions you couldn’t fake.
But guilty people felt them too, he reminded himself.
‘Did you see anyone hanging around Josh’s house when you left?’ he asked.
He watched her carefully for signs of relief as he changed the subject, saw none. She only shook her head.
‘Nobody who jumped out at me as a potential murderer, anyway. There was an old man walking his dog on the green but he could hardly bend over to clean up after his dog, so I doubt he’d be able to get the better of Josh.’
‘Had Josh mentioned being worried about anyone to you?’
