And then we cried.
Her first. Then me, because I hate to see her cry. And because I hate to think that what we had together is over.
I don’t know what shocked me most. What she did all those years ago – I can’t bring myself to call it murder – or the fact that she covered it all up and kept it secret. What kind of woman can do that?
What other crimes is she hiding?
What other things is she capable of?
Maybe what’s really flooring me is that I am left feeling totally confused. At first, I wanted to throw her out. Throw all her stuff after her. Banish any trace of her having been in my life. Then when I heard it all – let it all sink in – I think I began to understand.
I even wanted to be supportive and go with her this morning, help her tell the police the full story.
But I didn’t.
When her lawyer came just before dawn, I retreated into my moral citadel and slammed the door shut. So, she went without me. I didn’t even kiss her goodbye. Didn’t wave. Didn’t wish her good luck. She shouted that she was going. Shouted that she was sorry. And I gave her nothing to hope for. Not a hug, a smile, or even a look. It was cruel to do that. I know it was. A petty and unnecessary way of striking out at her, of expressing my hurt, when really I should have shown compassion.
And let’s face it, who am I to judge? I’m no saint. I have my secrets. My sins. In the midst of our row last night, when we were both at our lowest ebb, I thought about telling her what I had done. Who I had been seeing. It seemed a good time to get it off my chest. But I didn’t. Not because I was a coward, but, to the contrary, because I understood it was a cowardly time to tell her. To have shared details of my sexual indiscretion with someone who had just confessed to killing a classmate was to hide a black mark on a coal face.
I wander into the lounge and sit where I sat last night. Opposite where Sarah sat. And once more I try to come to terms with the fact that my wife is a killer.
52
Paula
I’m edgy and irritable as I prepare to go into the worst kind of meeting – one of those where the person in charge behaves like a schoolteacher and asks you to turn your phone off. I hate being controlled like that.
I wish people would realise modern life is about checking your phone every few minutes, multitasking and replying to urgent mails or texts, while still listening to whoever is talking. It’s not rude, it’s just social evolution.
So, I’m checking my phones. Yes, phones plural, because, like many people these days, I have personal and private ones. It’s not always good to let clients and staff have your private number, and vice versa.
There’s a text from Liz at the office that’s marked ‘Not Urgent’ but asks me to call her when I’m free. There’s a missed call from America. I see it’s from the chairman of MDS, the company trying to buy my business. He must have rung when I was in a bad reception area. And I see I’ve also missed a call from Finnian Docherty.
I check my voicemail. There are two messages. The first from Randy Stadler. ‘Hello, Mrs Smith,’ he says with a tired American drawl. ‘I just thought I’d ring and share some good news. Our corporate tax guys have given your accounts the thumbs up and I’m told all our due diligence will be wrapped within the week. Look forward to closing this deal with you, Paula. I’m off to bed now. It’s been a long, late night here in New York and I’m too old to do too many of these. Talk soon.’
I delete the message and listen to Fin’s. ‘Hi, Paula. I got your mail last night about Danny causing problems. Sorry to hear that. Don’t worry, though, I have Plan B rolling. And yes, it includes the pregnancy. Oh, by the way, congratulations on that. I hope, despite all the trouble, it’s a pregnancy that merits congratulations. Anyway, good luck with your meeting today, call me when you have chance.’ As an afterthought, he adds, ‘Oh, sorry again about the research team not getting those individual employee checks to you yet. I’m told they discovered some financial irregularities with regard to the man. I’ll update you when I know more. Bye for now.’
I turn off my business phone, more than happy with the messages. These days, no bad news is good news. I search in my bag for my personal phone, the big phablet Danny bought me for Christmas.
Then I remember.
The damned battery was flat. Sure, the thing can take amazing pictures and stream 4k video, but it never seems to go a full day without needing to be charged. And that’s where it is now. Umbilically linked to a plug socket. Forgotten. And not for the first time. I’d like to blame my forgetfulness on my pregnancy, but I know that’s not the case.
‘Sorry to have kept you waiting,’ says a polite receptionist. ‘They’re ready to meet you now.’
53
Danny
You know how, when you surface from a bender and you’re awake, but you haven’t yet opened your eyes, and you think you’re somewhere and you’re not, you are somewhere else? Well, I’m havin’ that experience right now.
In my mind, I’m at home, crashed out in a chair, stiff ’n’ sufferin’ a bit cos I didn’t make it to bed last night, didn’t stretch out and rest properly. I open my crust-sealed eyes and see my ugly mug staring straight back at me, from a mirror, less than half a metre away.
A car mirror.
I am not at home. Not a stagger away from havin’ a pee in my own toilet. I’m in my Porsche.
Shit.
And the car is not on the road.
Double shit.
My pickled brain dries out a little and starts to piece together the reason why.
I drove off the road.
Crashed?
No – I didn’t crash.
I pulled off the road because I was fallin’ asleep.
That’s right.
I planned to park up for a nap. Got myself into a layby, desperate for a rest. No street lights. Black as the end of space. I touched the brake but the Porsche didn’t stop. Ice.
That’s it.
There was black ice in the blackness. The car slid like it was on skates. I couldn’t stop it and we went down a bankin’. Then more blackness. My blackness. Blackness inside blackness.
Until now.
Daylight makes me blink. There’s a tree parked against the car bonnet. Trees in the wing mirrors. Trees behind me. Bleak, black, leafless bastards, eerily cowerin’ over me.
I’m in a forest somewhere, a copse or somethin’. I don’t know the road, the village or even the county.
Then I remember.
I used a Find My iPhone app to track Paula’s phone. It brought me all the way up here. Out into the wilds. Out to where that wife-shaggin’ soon-to-be-dead piece of shit lives.
I clunk open the car door.
It’s a struggle to get out of the tight Recaro seat. I step away from the 911 and look around. Aside from hangover pains and a sore shoulder, probably caused by the seat belt snappin’ fast on impact, I’m all right.
I walk around the front of the car and see the damage. The bonnet and passenger-side headlight are caved in. And unless I’m still pissed and can’t see straight, I must have run over a stump or somethin’ cos the back is lifted higher than the front.
I make my way to the boot and see daylight beneath the wheels. Only a tow-truck will get this baby back on the road and into a garage.
There’s a steep bank in front of me. Once I’ve had a pee, I’m goin’ to have to climb up it, to reach the road and then work out where I am before I call for help.
Paula and her filthy bastard lover will have to wait.
But when I find them, I’m goin’ to mess him up more than my motor.
54
Annie
Interview Room Two has recording equipment and also an old-style viewing mirror linked to an adjacent room, where officers not taking part in the session can sit and watch. Nisha and I pop in to sneak a look at Sarah Johnson and her lawyer, Terry Mellenby.
There is nothing exceptional about him. He’s early forties, medium height and bu
ild, thinning grey hair, pale brown eyes.
But there is something about her. She has presence.
That’s the first thing that hits me.
She’s attractive but not beautiful. Her skin is clear and she’s wearing minimal make-up, just a little help under the eyes, and there’s a redness from lack of sleep that I suspect will turn bloodshot by the end of the day.
Her hair is shoulder length, lightly coloured and in good condition. Her ears are pierced and she’s wearing cheap gold studs, which strikes me as odd. I imagine that at work, she puts her hair up in a bun to give herself a no-nonsense appearance, but it’s freshly washed and falling free today. I wonder if that is because she knows it makes her look more attractive and more vulnerable. She works in HR, so she’s undoubtedly aware that men weaken in the presence of vulnerability. It attracts them. Renders them protective.
Johnson stands up and looks bored. Seems not the kind who likes to sit around and do nothing. She turns to the mirrored glass and in an instant understands what it is. I know that because she doesn’t check her hair, make-up or clothes, she just stares straight through it. She has strong eyes. Brown and big. I can see how men could fall for them.
My attention switches from face to hands. Her nails are good. Clearly varnished. Not bitten. And no rings. Now that’s interesting. She’s married and has already shed the band. Presumably there had been an engagement ring as well. Perhaps differences with her husband are at the back of why she’s here.
And now the clothes.
She’s wearing a modern black woollen pantsuit, the kind you’d see someone like Angelina Jolie in, if she were playing the role of a CEO or even a very stylish secret agent. Single breasted and finely tailored.
I give Nisha a nod that says it’s time to go. We step outside, close the door and walk nine steps to Interview Room Two.
55
Sarah
I’m tired. Correction. I am more than tired. I am drained.
Terry is talking legal talk, as I pace this dull, featureless room. But I don’t hear him. All I can hear is Martin’s voice.
We’re done. Over. Finished.
He said all the things that no one in a relationship wants to hear. Said them in a slow, thin voice and a ghostly tone that I hadn’t heard before. One corroded with grief and perforated by his disappointment in me.
The interview room door opens and pulls me back into the present.
Two women sweep in. Neither is in uniform. One is white, early-forties, maybe older, it’s hard to tell. She’s tallish, a little overweight and looks dressed for a day in the garden. The other is Asian, slimmer, smaller and a little younger.
‘Mrs Johnson.’ The friendly gardener grins. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Annie Parker and this is DS Nisha Patel. We have a few questions for you. Is that okay?’
‘It’s why I came all this way,’ I say lethargically. My brief has politely risen from his seat and is waiting to be introduced. ‘This is my lawyer, Terence Mellenby.’
Terry smiles but says nothing. He doesn’t approve of me being here. Thinks I’m crazy.
‘Please take a seat.’ Parker waves a teacherly hand to the opposite side of the table. ‘With your permission,’ she continues, ‘we’d like to record the interview.’
‘I don’t mind that,’ I reply. ‘In fact, I’d prefer it. But, honestly, I think I can help you more if we take a drive.’
‘Drive where, Mrs Johnson?’
‘To where the body is. To where I buried Ashley Crewe.’
56
Annie
I heard her. Heard exactly what she just said. But I don’t react. I keep my face impassive and my voice calm.
False murder confessions are more common than the public think. Encourage a time-waster and you can spend days digging yourself out of the hole.
I switch on the recording equipment and sit up straight. ‘I need to officially tell you, Mrs Johnson, that, while you’ve come here voluntarily, this interview is now being recorded and I have to caution you. That means, you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Is all that clear to you?’
Her face is as expressionless as mine. ‘It is. It’s perfectly clear.’
I open the prep file I brought with me and also a pocket book. I don’t like to interrupt people during their statements, so I make notes and then pick up the points later. ‘Mrs Johnson, before I cautioned you and started this recording, you said something to me. Could you repeat it, please?’
‘I can,’ she says confidently.
Her lawyer touches her arm. ‘It’s not too late to remain silent. We can still walk out of here. You don’t have to do this.’
‘I do,’ she tells him earnestly. ‘I really do.’ She refocuses on me. ‘I told you I was willing to go on a drive with you to the spot where I helped bury the body of Ashley Crewe.’
Helped.
She didn’t say helped before. The word clearly implies two or more people. I won’t dive into it now. It’s too delicate a moment to argue what might be semantics. Instead, I make a note.
From the file, I produce the photograph of Ashley in his football kit and slide it across the table to her. ‘Can you tell me if you recognise the person in this picture?’
She doesn’t touch it. Her eyes sweep quickly and disdainfully over it. Just once. Then she looks at me. ‘That is Ashley Crewe. It’s the boy I’m speaking about. The boy I am responsible for killing and burying.’
That’s a forthright admission and we’re back to singular again. No helped. She claimed full and absolute responsibility. Back in the days when I first started as a copper, it was probably enough to charge someone. But not today. And not when my instincts are telling me this is going to become more complicated than it currently seems.
Murderers come in all shapes, sizes, sexes and ages but they’re seldom women and even more seldom teenage girls. Especially ones acting on their own.
I take back the photograph and return it to the file. ‘By all accounts, Ashley Crewe was a big lad. Hard as nails. So how exactly did you kill him, Sarah?’
For the first time, tension shows on her face. I’m not sure if she is annoyed because my tone may have suggested some disbelief, or if it’s because recalling the incident is painful.
‘I didn’t do it on my own.’
‘I didn’t think you did,’ I reply, in order to make her believe I know more than I do.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, and reaches quickly for her handbag. Her eyes glisten but she holds back the tears.
‘It’s okay,’ I say reassuringly. ‘Would you like some water?’ I reach for the jug and glasses in the centre of the table.
‘I think it best if we take a break for a moment,’ adds her lawyer.
Oh, no. I don’t want to do that. More than anything in the world, I don’t want her to run back from the edge.
Sarah Johnson blows her nose on a paper tissue from her bag. ‘I would like a break, please. Is that all right?’
‘Of course. No problem.’ I smile professionally and reach to the recorder. ‘DI Parker is stopping the recording at ten-twenty a.m. so Mrs Johnson can take a comfort break.’
The machine buzzes and I manage to stand and walk out before my face gives away my anger.
Nisha follows me into the adjoining room where Charlie is waiting.
I slam the door. Slap a hand against the wall.
‘Wow!’ says Nisha. ‘I didn’t expect her to open up like that.’
‘Bad luck, Annie,’ says Charlie, understanding the impact of the break. ‘It looked like she was just about to spill it all then.’
I stare through the glass. The lawyer is bent close to her, his hand over his mouth so we can’t lip-read, his voice no doubt no more than whisper pitch so it can’t be picked up on microphones.
To my horror, they both head to the door. The lawyer knocks. They’re g
oing to try to leave.
Nisha and I race into the corridor. A custody officer has just opened the interview room door. Johnson and her lawyer step out.
‘I’m looking for a bathroom,’ she says. ‘Give me five minutes and I’ll be ready to start again.’
57
Sarah
I don’t need the bathroom, except as somewhere to escape to. A place to think things through on my own, without the stress of that policewoman pressing me on things.
I run cold water on my wrists. Check my hair and make-up. Check my courage and resolve.
I return to the interview room and as I take my seat it’s clear from the faces of the police officers that they feared I was going to retract what I’d said. And they were right to worry. It certainly crossed my mind.
But not now.
That moment alone has given me the resolve to make a clean breast of things. To tell everything. Not just my part in the murder. But the other secrets as well. Crimes almost as shocking and devastating as the taking of a life.
Parker settles down opposite me, her colleague, the female sergeant, to my left. ‘Are you okay, now?’ asks the DI.
‘I’m fine to continue,’ I answer in as professional a tone as I can manage. I’m determined not to become emotional. Not to show the shame and guilt I am feeling.
Parker presses the record button on a chunky black tape machine and tells me, ‘I must remind you that you are still under caution.’
‘I understand.’
‘Mrs Johnson, before we took a break, I understood you to admit that another person had been involved in the murder and burial of Ashley Crewe. Am I correct?’
‘You are.’
‘Can you tell me who that person was?’
‘I can. His name at the time was Kenneth Aston. He was my boyfriend. My first love.’ I say the last sentence with an accidental hint of nostalgia. ‘He was the best thing that happened to me during a very bad period of my life.’
She scribbles in a small notebook then asks, ‘You said Aston was his name?’
Dead and Gone Page 16
