by Eva Dolan
‘The press don’t seem very interested,’ he said. ‘I don’t think they’ve got too much to worry about.’
‘Best you make an arrest before they catch on. Last thing you want is for this to go national.’
Zigic nodded his understanding, decided to leave it at that. Let Riggott feel the message had been delivered and assimilated, no need for him to jump on their backs about it. The last thing he actually wanted was Riggott micromanaging them up to an arrest.
The Long Fleet machinery being spooked enough to exert their influence at this stage was interesting though. Maybe it was purely the fear of bad press and the effects of that on their share price. Or maybe they were withholding damaging information themselves, hoping that without it the case would develop in a less embarrassing direction.
Riggott sank his drink and poured a second one with a heavier hand.
‘You see that bastard Walton in the paper last night? Shooting his mouth off about his false conviction? Waste of fucking skin. I had my way he’d be hauled out onto the fens in the middle of the night and shot in the fucking face.’
Zigic hadn’t seen it, avoided the local paper as much as possible.
‘He’s after suing us,’ Riggott snarled. ‘Grand way to deal with a rapist, aye? Apologise to them and chuck them a wedge of fucking cash.’
‘He won’t get anywhere with it,’ Zigic said.
‘Bet your arse on it?’ Riggott shook his head. ‘Mad old world we’re living in, son. Wouldn’t surprise me if he had the lot of us through court.’
This was why Riggott had pulled him into the office, Zigic suspected. Not the Ainsworth case, which he’d shown little interest in until two days in. Lee Walton’s release was preying on him, just like it was on the rest of them.
‘I’ll tell you something for nothing,’ Riggott pointed at him, ‘I’ll not retire while that fucking beast is loose.’
‘We’ll get him,’ Zigic said, the words feeling and sounding hollow, but it was the mantra they were all clinging to.
‘Oh, aye, because youse had such an easy run with him the first time.’
These weren’t Riggott’s first drinks of the afternoon Zigic was beginning to suspect. It was easy to forget that Lee Walton had been Riggott’s collar too, a stain on his clear-up rate and conscience. Riggott was still a DCI the first time Walton was arrested, for an aggravated sexual assault he walked away from, literally whistling down the station steps, the victim abruptly deciding she couldn’t confidently identify him.
‘And now we’ve got the lawyers telling us to steer clear of the bastard. “Don’t give him any more ammunition”,’ he quoted, in a high and squeaky voice. ‘I know what ammunition I’d like to give him. Both barrels up the shitter.’
Zigic watched the play of dark and malicious thoughts across Riggott’s face, how they knocked a few years off him, bringing out the man he used to be.
‘Does this mean we have to stop the cold case review?’ Zigic asked.
‘Catch yourself on, son.’ Riggott grinned viciously. ‘We’re the fucking law here.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
She didn’t see him until it was too late.
One hand full of shopping, the other thumbing her phone – answering a text from Billy wanting to know where she was – her whole body unbalanced by the effort of keeping her gym bag from slipping off her shoulder and taking her handbag with it. Walking through an underground car park full of shadows and hiding places with her wits split between petty distractions.
So distracted she walked straight into Lee Walton.
‘You should look where you’re going,’ he said. ‘Never know who you’ll bump into otherwise.’
Ferreira took a step back. Involuntarily. Her lizard brain telling her to run while her copper’s brain said stand your ground, Sergeant.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ she asked, her voice coming out at a whisper, pitched between fear and anger. A voice she hardly recognised as her own.
He closed the gap between them. He’d bulked up during his six months inside, arms thick in a short-sleeved shirt, all cord and veins. He looked like he could twist her head right off her shoulders.
She slipped her phone away. Thinking she might only get one shot at him.
‘Well?’
Still he didn’t answer. Just stared at her with that unwavering gaze filled with contempt and hunger and a strange kind of boredom, which only made her more desperate to turn and flee. She’d seen it in the interview room and then in court, where he’d made more of an effort to hide it, needing the jury to see an ordinary man smeared by the police and a parade of hysterical, lying women. Ferreira had waited and watched for it, seeing him turning it on and off like there was a switch marked psychopath just behind his ear.
But it wasn’t turning off now.
It was intensifying.
She thought of the wine bottle in her shopping bag, how quickly she could get it out and smash it across the side of his face. Whether that would be enough to put him down.
She thought of Billy, upstairs in her flat, and whether she could get him here without Walton noticing her texting. If she even wanted to do that.
No. She wasn’t going to give Walton the satisfaction of calling for help like so many women had done before, while he drank in their terror, secure in the knowledge that nobody was coming to save them.
‘Where’s Dani?’
So that was it. The girlfriend.
‘She doesn’t want anything to do with you,’ Ferreira said sharply.
‘She’ll come crawling back the minute I tell her to.’
Not a trace of doubt in his voice or his face. Even though she’d given evidence against him. Finally retracted the alibi, which had kept him safe for so long, then disappeared with his son under a new name to a distant city.
‘You got into her head,’ he said, jabbing a finger in her face.
‘Yeah, I did.’ She dredged some bravado from the pit of her churning stomach. ‘And it was easy. Because you got her so fucked up she didn’t know how to think for herself any more. She was just waiting for someone to tell her what to do.’
‘I want my son back.’
‘Tell it to Fathers for Justice,’ she said. ‘They’ve probably got a Spiderman costume that’ll fit you.’
He grabbed her around the bicep, fingers digging in hard.
‘You’re going to call her and tell her to get back here with my boy.’
Ferreira shook her head. She could hear her heartbeat thundering in her ears, so loud she was sure he could hear it too.
‘Never going to happen.’
His jaw clenched. He dragged her towards him, so close now that she could smell the rage in his sweat, feel the heat burning off his overblown muscles.
‘If you don’t call her …’
‘What?’ She threw her chin up at him.
Walton smiled at her, brought his face to hers. ‘You know what.’
She didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.
‘Not here, though,’ he said. ‘It’ll be somewhere more private for you.’
He took a deep inhale, like he was sucking her fear down into his lungs, wanting to hold that part of her.
A car horn honked behind her and Walton didn’t even flinch. He just released her arm and ambled away, hands shoved into his pockets.
The horn sounded again and she started to move out of the vehicle’s path, on automatic, one numb footstep after another into the back lobby and then the lift, and she was shaking, teeth clenched, vision filmy. When she tried to fit her key in the lock, it kept skidding away from the hole.
And all the while she had the smell of him in her nostrils, could taste the reek of him.
Billy opened the door and she forced her way past him, kicking the door shut and dropping her bags.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, face tight with worry. ‘You look like you’re about to pass out.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, voice wobbling. ‘It’s nothing. I
’m fine.’
‘Mel, you’re freaking me out right now.’ He took hold of her hands and she fought down the urge to snatch them free, the adrenaline still pumping through her veins, making her shudder even at his touch. ‘What happened?’
She took a deep breath.
‘Walton was downstairs.’
He pulled away from her, reaching for the door. She moved fast to block him off, threw her full weight at the fake walnut ply, slamming it shut again.
‘Please don’t go down there.’
‘My God, what did he do to you?’ Billy’s hands were on her shoulders, eyes searching hers. ‘Did he hurt you?’
‘Just leave it.’ She grabbed the front of his shirt. ‘Walton’s gone, alright? I saw him off.’
He let out a groan of frustration, deep and guttural, as he dragged her into a hug, arms tight around her shoulders. ‘Shit, Mel. Come on, I’ve got you.’
They stood like that for a minute, neither speaking, and she felt the fear beginning to dissipate, her body slowly accepting that she was safe now, that she had escaped, that there was nobody here to fight. She rubbed her face against his neck, breathed in the familiar scent of him, the stale cigarettes and faded aftershave; inhaled him, exhaled Walton. Kept doing it until she felt ready to speak again.
‘Can you get me a drink?’
She held on to his hand as they went into the kitchen, watched him close the blinds before he took a bottle of rum from the cupboard, the good dark stuff, twenty years old. He poured two glasses and drew her back through into the living room, sat her on the sofa and lowered himself carefully next to her.
‘Is this the first time he’s approached you?’
She nodded, knowing that telling him about Walton being outside the night before would only make things worse.
‘Okay, you need to tell me exactly what he said.’
‘I handled it.’
It was a lie but she couldn’t admit that she got lucky, that she didn’t know what would have happened next if that car hadn’t come along.
‘Mel, you need to tell me, please.’
‘He wants to know where his girlfriend and son are,’ she said.
‘Is that it?’
She nodded, her hand going to the place where he’d gripped her arm. ‘For a second there I thought about telling him.’
‘You can’t do that.’
‘I’d never do it,’ she snapped. ‘For God’s sake, what do you think I am?’
He apologised, lowering his eyes.
‘That’s what Walton does,’ she said quietly, back in the moment. ‘That’s how he got away with what he did for so long. He gets up close to you and he just bludgeons you with his presence. He’s – shit, I don’t even know how to explain it – he has this force field around him almost.’ Her fingers gripped her glass. ‘And once you’re inside it, you’re not the one in control any more. You feel like he could make you do anything.’
Billy slipped his hand into hers, stroked her knuckles.
‘If I felt like that, what the hell did all those other women feel like?’ She took a mouthful of rum, held it on her tongue, letting its fire burn away that admission of weakness.
‘It’s okay to feel like that.’ Billy kissed the side of her head. ‘Honestly, of all the fucking animals I’ve encountered in this job, Walton’s the only one who really got to me. The only time I’ve ever felt like I was going to lose it during an interview was when you walked in on us and I saw how he looked at you. I wanted to tear his throat out with my bare hands.’
She wished she could say something funny – tell him it was every girl’s dream to watch her man tear out a throat for her – just to drain the intensity from the moment, but found she couldn’t. Instead she screwed her body up small and laid her head against his chest.
‘What do you want to do about this?’ he asked finally.
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘I’m not sure there’s anything we can do. Riggott’s already warned you off approaching Walton.’
‘That was before.’
She straightened away from him. ‘But this doesn’t change anything, does it? Walton hasn’t done anything illegal. We can’t charge him with being in a car park.’
‘It’s harassment,’ Billy said.
‘No, it isn’t. Not yet. Not one time. And even if it was, we both know how bad harassment needs to get before a case gets anywhere near a courtroom.’ She went for another drink and found her glass empty. ‘People are stalked for years and it ends, at best, with a three-month prison sentence.’
‘We can’t wait until he actually attacks you,’ Billy moaned. ‘Because that’s what we’d be doing. It’s what we are doing already, waiting for him to attack someone so we can arrest him.’ He gripped her hand tighter. ‘I’m not going to let that person be you.’
‘He’s not going to do that,’ she said, trying to sound like she believed it. ‘He’s only just out of prison, even Walton isn’t stupid enough to go after a police officer.’
‘He thinks he’s untouchable.’
That was how it felt. Down there in the parking garage, with people walking by on the path just beyond the low wall. They would have been close enough to hear a scream but how many would stop and investigate? Who would actually do something? No one, she knew, thinking of the night Josh Ainsworth was murdered, the neighbours only a thin wall away, hearing violence and deciding to stay put, finish their drinks, maybe turn the sound on the television up and pretend to themselves that it was nothing.
She thought of Walton dragging his victims off the footpaths he’d snatched them from. But never very far. Within earshot of anyone passing. As if he enjoyed the possibility of being caught or, more disturbingly, watching the passers-by pretending they didn’t know what was going on a few metres away from them.
‘It’ll be somewhere more private for you.’
A shudder wracked her body at the memory of his words and for a moment she thought she was going to be sick, felt the swell of fear once again, cold and tumbling at her centre.
‘I just need to be more careful,’ she said, the words sounding inadequate.
He shook his head at her. ‘That isn’t a solution, Mel. You’re not coming home alone again. Sorry, but that’s non-negotiable.’
‘Alright,’ she said. ‘We’ll leave work together from now on, okay?’
‘Maybe you should come to mine for the duration.’
She wanted to protest, tell him she wouldn’t be forced out of her home by a piece of shit like Walton, that she could handle herself. But she heard the fear in his voice and felt it still churning within her, bodily terror at the thought of running into Walton again. Or worse, not seeing him until it was too late.
‘I’m not asking you to move in permanently, if that’s what’s worrying you,’ he said, smiling like it was a shared joke, rather than a reproach buried in humour.
They’d had the conversation before, often enough that she knew he was beginning to see her repeated refusals to give up her flat as a lack of commitment to him rather than a need for her own space. Now wasn’t the time to repeat that discussion and it wasn’t what she was thinking.
She didn’t want to be the kind of woman who ran away.
But she knew that was the kind of thinking that would get her hurt – or worse.
Ferreira hauled herself up from the sofa. ‘I’ll go and pack a bag.’
DAY THREE
THURSDAY AUGUST 9TH
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When she saw the number pop up on her screen, Ferreira immediately left her desk, excusing herself from the conversation she was having with Colleen Murray about a blind date Colleen had been on the night before; a set-up by a mutual friend that had somehow resulted in her attending a lecture at Peterborough museum by a visiting professor of early modern English jewellery design.
‘Couldn’t work myself into the mood for it after that,’ she said.
By the time Ferreira was in the stairwell, she realised s
he wasn’t ready to answer the call, didn’t know what to say to Evelyn Goddard, whether it was her place to apologise or not. Even though she was sure that’s what Goddard was ringing her for.
As the leader of a local trans rights group, Goddard had been instrumental in bringing Walton to justice, had provided them with the forensic evidence that had helped secure his conviction and that had ultimately led to the same conviction being quashed. She’d also been responsible for convincing one of Walton’s victims to talk to Ferreira about her attack; a conversation that had proved so traumatic that Goddard blamed Ferreira for the victim’s suicide a few days later.
Ferreira felt that she owed Goddard something, but wasn’t sure what she could offer her that could possibly help.
Instead she let the call ring out and rolled a cigarette.
Within two breaths Billy was taking her lighter out of her hand to spark his own fag up.
‘Is this my life now?’ she asked. ‘You freaking out every time you don’t have eyes on me?’
‘The fucking ego on you. I just needed a fag, alright?’
She told herself to let it go. But last night had taken so much winding down from that neither of them slept more than a couple of fitful hours, kept awake by circular conversations that kept slamming up against the hopelessness of the situation and urgent, unsatisfying sex that only made them both more frustrated.
It was as if Walton had forced his way between them disturbing their usual rhythm, making it impossible to fully concentrate on one another.
‘Did Colleen tell you about her date?’ Ferreira asked.
‘Yeah, I’m thinking of getting her a metal detector for Christmas.’
She smiled.
‘Makes you glad you’re not on the market any more, doesn’t it?’ He sounded nostalgic rather than regretful.
She gave him a dead-eyed look. ‘That wasn’t how my dates went.’
‘And I thought you came to me spotless,’ he said, faking outrage.
‘About as innocent as you were.’
He flicked ash off his cigarette. ‘Any movement with your murder?’
